Love Potion 13
by LadyNRA
Summary: Pete and Myka are getting used to being Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned. Post "Magnetism", pre "Claudia"
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

**Author's Note: **I admit it, the plot bunnies turned rabid right after the initial airing of the second episode ("Resonance"). I started writing immediately after that and finished this right after the third episode aired ("Magnetism"). This story takes place shortly after Magnetism but before "Claudia." And yes, as the title implies this is definitely a fluffy piece of fiction. Hope you like reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The South Dakota badlands in winter could be brutal, unforgiving, and yet, strikingly beautiful at the same time.

Myka Bering was beyond such assessments, content to just glide across the thick ice of the large pond she'd found on the acreage housing the vast underground complex known as Warehouse 13. It was true that she had to walk quite a way to get there, but it had been worth it. Another fight with her dad, long distance at that, had worked her temper into such a state that she needed to burn off the frustration. This place, harbored between several large hills, held a pond right out of her childhood memories. It was more than sufficient in size to slough off her discontentment like hosing mud off rubber boots, but not so large that she felt swallowed up by it.

Off to the side, Peter Lattimer, fellow Secret Service agent, and new partner, sat on an upended plastic bucket, simply enjoying the pristine surroundings and Myka's lithe form as she went through her paces. Myka's medium length, curly brown hair flowed out behind her as she arched her back, raised her arms, and executed a perfect 360 before sliding into a series of equally perfect figure eights.

He'd gone along simply because he was bored in the absence of current assignments, so he'd decided to make the best of a dull situation. He was always the kind of guy who hated sitting still and here he was nearly motionless. He was about to get up, call his partner's name, and tap his watch for emphasis, when he heard a sound coming from between the nearest hillocks. It didn't take any training whatsoever to identify what was approaching. Even a kid could tell it was a vehicle, and since no one but their immediate supervisor and anyone else intimately connected with Warehouse 13 was allowed on the property, it mostly likely had to be 'the man' himself.

As expected, Arthur Nielsen pulled to a stop near them, the tires sliding a couple of inches or two before he came to a complete standstill. Lattimer did a double take at seeing the vehicle, but then didn't give it another thought. Around here, they changed vehicles the way a supermodel changed clothes.

Artie lumbered out of the vehicle, his short frame practically hidden from view. When he did appear past the bumper, he was carrying a pair of black ice skates slung over one shoulder. He pushed his glasses farther up on his nose, and slogged through the snow toward the pair.

He stood for a moment looking first at the sky, then at the pristine white snow unmarred except for a dual trail of footprints.

"Beautiful day, don't you think?" he inquired pleasantly in a lilting baritone voice.

Pete squinted at him a moment as he struggled to figure out the angle. Artie had a habit of trying to disarm his opponents with kindness or cookies before 'lowering the boom' as the old saying went. Pete noted the empty hands. "I'd rather have the cookies," he muttered to himself.

"'What was that?" Artie's right eyebrow shot up.

"Um, oh, nothing, just thinking aloud." Pete sat up a bit straighter and looked his superior directly in the eye. "Yup, it is a _beautiful_ day," he added as he watched Myka moving around the pond blissfully unaware of the company. "No doubt about it. Lovely." The steaming clouds of exhaled breath encompassing his head thickened slightly as he thought about his new partner. "So what brings _you_ out here?"

Ignoring Pete's studious scrutiny, Artie turned his dark eyes on Myka. "Oh, I saw Myka leave with skates and figured I'd try my hand at it also. I keep promising myself I'd get more exercise, ya know?"

Seconds later, Artie plopped down on Myka's bucket which was only a few feet from the end of the pond, and slid off hiking boots. A couple of minutes later he had the skates on, and carefully, hesitantly stepped onto the ice.

Pete smirked. Far as he was concerned this was going to be good for a laugh. Artie wasn't young, mid 50's as far as he could judge. Truth be told, he didn't give the impression of being especially agile either. The combination promised to give Pete some entertainment and perhaps even some fuel for jokes later on.

The man of his focus didn't disappoint. Artie stepped out onto the ice, attracting Myka's full attention. She started toward him. He leaned forward as if to push off, and suddenly there were feet flying everywhere, arms pin-wheeling wildly, all semblance of balance nearly destroyed.

Taking in the situation, and caring enough not to want to see his superior seriously hurt, Pete jumped to his feet, his pantherish, agile movements already getting him near enough for a lunge if necessary. Powerful muscles in his broad shoulders and strong legs flexed as he started to reach out. At the same moment, Myka had reacted, trying to forestall Artie's spectacular face plant by pivoting and stretching elegantly manicured hands outward.

As if by magic, Artie managed to right himself, push off, and meet Myka about ten feet from shore. He took her into a waltz style embrace, swung her around once, split off, skating backward and pointed at Myka, with his left forefinger. Simultaneously, he tapped the side of his somewhat prominent nose with the same digit on his opposite hand. "Gotcha," the gesture said. It was followed by Artie's trademark lopsided smile.

Myka's blades cut into the ice, bringing her to a sudden stop. She firmly planted both hands on her shapely hips and drew her full lips into a firm line. "That is so not funny, Artie! I really thought you were going to hurt yourself."

"So sorry," he murmured sheepishly, although his expression didn't appear repentant at all. He paused for a second, waiting for her narrow-eyed glare to fade.

Before Myka could chastise him further, he'd swung back, taken her back into a dancer's stance, and flowed into a very simple routine for paired figured skaters. He led her through the basics and she had no trouble matching him move for move as he guided her around for another five minutes.

Pete watched in amusement as Myka and Artie moved through the impromptu routine. He had to admit it was an interesting sight. Artie was considerably shorter than Myka and significantly wider, especially around the middle. And yet, he was forced to admit there was an inherent grace about the couple as they whirled past. A dreamlike quality seemed to surround them, the scratching sounds of ice under blade the only noise to mar the perfection of the moment.

As the barren, ivory landscape spun around her, Myka felt many of the tensions ease from her taut, lean muscles. For the briefest of moments, she was a child again, reveling in the joy of movement and dance, the cares and angst and anger of her young years melting away as surely as ice crystals melting on a heated windshield. A beautiful smile pulled at her lips, revealing white teeth and it didn't fade until she brought Artie's round face into focus.

Though there were still laugh lines framing his eyes, Artie's expression had become neutral. Instantly, she snapped back into reality. She was here in the boonies, literally in the middle of nowhere, with no life but her new job, in the arms of her boss, who was closely watching her with those expressive eyes.

Not too long ago, when she'd lost her previous partner, and the greatest love of her life, she'd submerged herself in the work, followed by watching old movies and mindless hours of reading romances, forever envisioning Sam's image in her head when reading about the hero. One thing she'd noticed about those novels was the fact that authors tended to overdo the ability of the eyes to convey such a great depth of emotion. She'd laughed at the time, never believing it. Heck, not even Sam's eyes were that talkative. But she had to admit that Arthur Nielsen had the knack of speaking through them. Even though she'd only known him briefly, she'd gotten better at reading his varied looks, and this one said something was brewing, that he wasn't out there solely for much needed exercise.

Myka sighed and released his warm hands, instantly regretting it as her own grew cold from a sudden biting wind racing through the little valley.

Clouds of steaming breath surrounded them as they stepped from the ice and began to unlace the skates. Pete walked over to where Myka stood and gallantly offered her the bucket, flipping it solid end up, and patting it for emphasis. She glanced at him sideways, trying to figure what was up. Her subconscious still viewed him as being way too cocky for his own good, and obnoxious enough to rub it in any chance he got. But she relented and took a seat. Artie claimed her bucket and parked himself heavily.

By the time she got her boots on, Artie was lacing up his own, and preparing to stand.

"Time to boogie," the older man said, waving his hand casually in the direction of Warehouse 13, the storage facility for everything weird and wonderful, dangerous and deadly.

"Something up?" Pete inquired, just wanting to get right to the point. He'd been itching for an assignment for days and his sixth sense perked up at the mere thought of facing another challenging retrieval of some bizarre or nefarious artifact.

"You could say that," muttered Nielsen, as his rubbed frozen condensation off the still dark hair of his mustache, and the more silvered hairs of his goatee. "I'm still not entirely sure what we are looking for…"

"Are you ever?" Pete asked sardonically. "It's usually a guessing game, at least it has been up 'til now."

"True, true," Artie agreed mildly, not rising to the bait. His gift of collating bizarre, seeming unrelated events and information into distinctive patterns, had been something no one else had been able to duplicate, but as astute as he was in looking for these trends, the skill had rarely extended into knowing exactly what they were hunting before they went looking for 'it'. "Let's head back and discuss it there, okay?"

"Fine with me," Myka responded, gathering up her skates. As an afterthought, she grabbed Artie by the sleeve of his wool peacoat, and smiling softly said, "Thanks for the workout. It's been too long."

"My pleasure," Artie's head bobbed, that half-smile returning for the briefest of seconds. With one hand, he gestured toward their transportation.

Lattimer glanced over to the vehicle Artie had arrived in, studying it more closely. Not the boss' usual 'wheels', Pete noted again. A non-descript black Yukon sat with its tires submerged into about six inches of snow. They'd already been privileged to borrow Artie's 'ride', a timelessly classy and powerful vehicle that shouted impeccable taste and a significant paycheck on the part of the owner. And this clearly wasn't it. This one was far more suited to the local and current weather conditions. Another rental. Well, that suited Pete just fine. The rules Artie had forced upon them with his personal vehicle had been a bit bothersome. This alternative was much better. No worries about spilled coffee or cookie crumbs on the floor mats.

All of them piled into the Yukon after buckets and skates had been tossed in back. There were several sets of duffels neatly stacked back there as well. Three of them, not the usual two, Pete noted. In addition, there were two canisters of the purple goo Artie referred to as Neutralizer. And beside them was Artie's ever-present black doctor's bag which typically toted an amazing assortment of gadgets.

"Going with us?" Pete inquired in surprise and just a touch of consternation. He spared Artie the briefest of sideways glances. This was something new and unexpected. "Don't get me wrong, but you usually stay behind and monitor everything in the warehouse while we're out on assignment. Who are we gonna go to for information?"

Artie's expression clearly said, "Well, duh!" though he had the good grace not to verbalize it.

Myka, formerly silent but enjoying the opportunity to goad Pete, said, "Oh, I'm sure Artie is quite capable of lending his superb reasoning skills to the mission even if we can't access the warehouse computers. Right, Artie?"

That made the recipient of the question pause, trying to figure out the angle. Bering was right, generally speaking. He wasn't too old or incompetent to be of no value on a mission, but he would miss his computers if he needed quick access to data. He debated whether she was complimenting him or trying to manipulate him into reconsidering his decision. Ultimately he kept his opinion to himself. Instead, his large brown eyes flicked to the teammate who posed the initial question.

"For your information, I'm tagging along on this assignment," he began in a placid tone that made it impossible to figure out if he was looking forward to the trip or was mildly irked but hiding it well, "to lend moral support."

"We don't need…" Myka began, but was held up by her superior's broad-fingered hand rising in a 'hold on' motion.

Voice still calm, almost mellow, Artie continued, "What I meant to say is that I was asked, rather pointedly I gotta add, by Mrs. Frederic, to oversee this mission…a mission which shouldn't be troublesome by the way… just to give you some pointers."

"Pointers! We don't need…" the other two occupants said, almost in unison. It was one of the rare moments they agreed on anything. Artie noted it but avoided making jokes. Again the hand came up.

"I'm charged with teaching you to become a more effective team, pure and simple. You're doing admirably so far, so please don't argue with me about it." He rocked a finger from driver's seat to back seat. "Face it. You two seriously need to plan better."

"We're quite experienced at—" Myka began, ire already rising.

"Hey, I'm skilled in--" it was Pete's turn.

"Logistics, follow through, thinking calmly under pressure, yeah, yeah, yeah. We're all well aware why you were selected for this team in the first place." He took a sip of coffee from a travel mug whose contents were still steaming up from a hole in the lid. "What I'm referring to is developing a better sense of," he paused for another sip, though it may have been to fish for an appropriate word, which in this case was, "Cooperation. We'd like you to be less…" Words like confrontational, argumentative, combative and childish raced into Artie's mind, yeah, especially liked that last one, but he didn't voice it. "Um…divisive in how you structure your planning sessions."

Pete and Myka exchanged glances through the rearview mirror. They knew Nielsen was right but weren't about to admit it.

"What does it matter how we do the job as long as it's done properly without anyone getting hurt?" Lattimer finally asked. Then Pete forced air through pursed lips. "Okay, so you're implying that we need to work better together, I get it."

Hearing the hardening of Pete's voice, Artie closed his eyes. Obviously, the young man's good old boy attitude was heading south…fast. "Look, as I see it, you two are almost there already. Outwardly, you've passed…you know…with flying colors." His fingers began to tick off the count. "Artifacts are being brought in. You don't attract a lot of attention…well, relatively speaking. You're both still alive and in one piece. There's a huge blessing right there. What I'm referring to is the emotional component of your partnership."

"Continue," Myka stated tightly, starting to sound like Pete.

This time it was Artie's turn to sigh. "Let me be blunt. You two argue like Peg and Al Bundy from Married with Children, but with a whole lot more hostility. It's clouding your judgment. May even be hampering your efforts to get the assignments over quickly and efficiently. Frankly, in some cases, I think you've been inordinately lucky, and luck only holds for so long. The alternative, when good fortune fails, could be… disastrous. Believe me, I know." He went silent for a minute and the anguished look on his face stopped any further comebacks from the other two passengers in the vehicle.

Pete was the first to break the silence but he did so in a neutral non-argumentative tone. "So what do you suggest?

"My off-the-cuff attempt at reverse psychology last time, when I tried to fool you both into thinking you were in charge of the mission, wasn't a complete failure, you know. But I realize my mistake. So now, I'm suggesting you take charge of missions tag-team style. Flip a coin, odds or evens. Rock, paper, scissors for all I care. Whoever wins will be in charge." His baritone voice dropped an octave as he hit the last two words.

He glanced at Pete, and then twisted to gaze at Myka. "Who is 'it' this go around, surrenders lead the next mission. And so on. This does not," another tonal shift, "mean subtle attempts to push for control or sneaking around behind your partner's back just because you want to follow a hunch or a 'vibe'." His eyes were boring into the side of Lattimer's temple in an attempt to drill the point home.

Just to irk Artie, Pete smiled, turned on all the boyish charm, and chirped back cheerfully. "Gotcha, boss, open communication. Go by the playbook. Don't go against orders."

"Exactly!" responded Artie, clearly not buying into the act, but hoping for the best anyway. Both of his field agents possessed strong personalities. This was not all that unusual given the line of work they were in. Now that the idea of alternating leadership had been presented, it would become his task to see that they developed these news skills. If not this assignment, then the next. He mentally groaned at the thought of refereeing two wildly flailing boxers without the aid of vats of neutralizer or at least a couple of tazers.

"When we get where we're going, choose who's in the lead and we'll proceed from there."

After dumping off skates and buckets at the warehouse, they took off.

The trip to southwestern Iowa wasn't too onerous with all three of them sharing driving responsibilities. Nevertheless, they didn't get into a presentable hotel until a few hours before dawn. All were groggy despite catnaps when not driving. After checking in, Pete and Artie retired to a small but clean room with two double beds, a small but spotless bathroom, an older 32 inch TV, coffeepot, and the usual places to stash belongings. Myka got to enjoy her privacy. Secretly, she hoped Artie snored, loudly, just to make Pete miserable, but dropped the thought after realizing they both needed to be rested and on their toes.

Pete showered before turning in. Artie had collapsed on the bed, in tee-shirt and what looked like baggy shorts. He was sound asleep on his back, mouth open, but breathing quietly.

Sighing in relief at his good fortune, Lattimer slid between the sheets and was dreaming of Myka's dance around the pond before he could have counted to fifty.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned

.

Chapter 2

Myka pounded on their door roughly three hours later. She took orders for an early fast food style breakfast. Artie was just coming out of the shower by the time she got back, and he eyed the food ravenously. Too her surprise, a plate of reasonably fresh cookies in Ziploc baggies were laying on the table, and Pete had clearly sampled a few. Crumbs dusted the top of his ever present Dartmouth tee-shirt.

"You been baking again, Artie?" She asked lightly, as she selected the least fattening item on the table.

"Naturally." Artie bestowed a flash of a grin on them. "What's life without cookies?" He inquired conversationally.

Helping himself to another one, Pete grinned back. He offered one to Myka, "How stressed out are you? Need a sugar high yet?"

Wrinkling her nose, she grunted, "Not nearly. Ask me again once we have an idea of what we're hunting down." It didn't, however, stop her from eyeing them. Despite protestations to the contrary, she secretly appreciated her superior's baking skills, especially after he'd prepared low fat, low sugar alternatives the last time.

Pete on the other hand wasn't picky. He reached for another oatmeal and raisin cookie.

"Save some for her," Artie admonished. "She may not stress over the mission, but she's surely going to stress if you win the toss."

"Funny!" Myka snarled. "Okay, let's do it!"

Pete's face took on an expression of erotic bliss. Artie's thick, dark right eyebrow hiked up at least an inch.

"Oooo," Myka growled through gritted teeth. "Men!" She threw up her hands and stepped back several feet. "I mean how do you want to choose who's in charge?"

"We can do it any way you like!" Pete said, barely biting back a laugh.

Myka rounded on Artie who was biting his lower lip to stifle a laugh. "Artie! Don't even go there. Get him to be serious about this."

Artie's hands went up in surrender. "I'm not getting between you two. Frankly, I'm just gonna sit back and enjoy the show."

Allowing her head to drop down suddenly, Myka flung up her hands in imitation of her boss, and stalked to the door. Before she took four steps, however, Pete dodged around her blocking her way. Bering glared at him. Eyes virtually dancing, he grabbed her shoulders, turned her around and walked her back to the center of the room.

"Okay, okay. What was your favorite way of choosing for things when you were younger?"

Seeing that he was serious, and feeling somewhat mollified over this, she shrugged. "Dad always did prefer the coin toss but I'm not my dad."

"'course not." Pete agreed. As soon as he'd heard it was her dad's way of doing things, he knew she'd never go for that.

"Rock, paper, scissors," she decided with a slight smirk.

"Best two out of three," Pete added.

"Agreed."

"Finally," Artie was heard muttering under his breath.

The first round went to Pete whose paper covered Myka's rock. The next round was Myka's; scissors cuts paper. Myka quickly calculated the odds of Pete choosing paper three times in a row. Would he do it because he assumed she'd be expecting something else, or would he change because he knew she was expecting him to trick her by staying with his first choices? Assuming this man loved trickery, Myka chose.

Ultimately, Pete won by going to rock breaking scissors.

"Well, it's official," Artie announced, holding the younger man's arm up in victory. "Pete, you call the shots…this time."

"Got it," Lattimer nodded, intentionally choosing not to irritate Myka further by rubbing it in. "Okay, let's see what you have for us."

In minutes, Artie had laid out the folders containing the few sparse and seemingly unrelated facts he had acquired back at the warehouse. Also he placed the obligatory weird questions list before them to remind them he wanted it brought along.

"Willowbrook Center is a large, sprawling nursing facility catering to a wide variety of patients, from those needing minimal care on up to seniors who need twenty four hour supervision. Several weeks ago one of the patients was brutally beaten to death. No one saw or heard a thing. A couple of nights later, same thing. And so on. "

Myka blinked. "'and so on?" How many deaths are we talking about?"

"Four to date."

Pete chimed in. "So why did this attract your attention? Cuz this sounds more like a serial murderer than an artifact run amok."

Nodding, Artie replied, "I understand what you mean…that's why it took me so long to pick up on it. But I asked myself, what are the odds that this M.O. would crop up in one complex, among seniors barely able to walk let along assault anyone, and by such violent means. These victims all had multiple bones broken, skulls bashed in."

Myka frowned at the image. "An attendant going berserk maybe?"

"Or someone liking to prey on weaker victims sneaks in at night? Maybe the guy gets off on seeing the fear of the victims as he's attacking them."

"Could be", Artie agreed, "but…" he paused to consider his words, "…the investigators have had no success, and my instincts tells me there's more to it than meets the eye."

Pete's eyes squeezed shut as if he was primed to make a derogatory joke about Artie's ample middle section but was struggling to avoid giving voice to those thoughts.

Narrowed brown eyes slid sideways, fixing on Pete. Artie scowled as if he could read Lattimer's mind and subconsciously stood up straighter.

"Well," Pete began, "I wouldn't want to argue with…that, so we'll look into the matter right away. Time to create a game plan," he added fixing Myka with a pointed look. "Police station first. It'll be lunch time by the time we finish so we can discuss what we've found then."

"Got your Farnsworth?" Artie inquired as they were gearing up to head out.

"Right here," Myka said, patting the side of her purse. Since they had no immediate plans to split up, Lattimer had decided Bering should be the bearer of the device.

"Fine, and here…" he produced two pieces of paper with a phone number of each. Identical numbers, Pete noted. "This is my cell phone number. Don't use it unless you can't find some place private enough for the Farnsworth." He fished the cell out of his black trench coat's left breast pocket and waved it at them.

Suddenly, a thought hit Myka. "Why? Aren't you coming with us?"

"Not right away," Artie confirmed. "You don't need me around for the basic legwork. Besides, I heard there was a decent exhibit of Native American artifacts at the history museum, and curiosity is prompting me to take a look."

"Not a vibe?" Pete inquired, knowing that while Artie's vibe's weren't the same as his, Artie's own unique sixth sense tended to cause him to gravitate toward objects that needed to be secreted away.

"No, no, no," was the quick response. "Just a learning experience. I've always been fascinated by primitive cultures, and the exhibit promises to be enlightening."

"Be careful," Myka advised, and mentally slapped herself. Heck, Artie had been Secret Service himself, still was in fact, technically. She reminded herself he could take care of himself, had proven as much in their short association. But still…weird stuff seriously skewed the odds against having a good day for Warehouse 13 personnel. And she may not have gotten warnings in the same way Pete did, but her intuition was prompting her to say it anyway.

He took no offense. "Always."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned

Chapter 3

The visit to the museum was fruitful as far as Arthur Nielsen was concerned. They had a huge number of artifacts from many different tribes, from Inuit to Mohawk to Cherokee, from Ute and Apache in the south to Lakota and Cheyenne. North to south, east coast to west. The curator had done a decent job of setting them up, displaying weapons, pottery, articles of clothing, creating dioramas depicting village life. The notes displayed near each item were informative but not overwhelming. He was impressed.

After ninety minutes of browsing, he checked his cell phone to make sure he hadn't been too preoccupied to hear their call. The voices of boisterous kids echoing in open rooms had a way of drowning out other noises. No calls. No equivalent buzzing of the Farnsworth. So far so good, he thought with pleasure, hoping that no news was good news.

He entered a room with various dolls from a wide variety of tribes, some very simple, others remarkably ornate. Most were dressed in hide garments and stuffed with various foliage or straw. Beads sometimes created faces or hair, as did feathers of various sizes and colors.

Ambling over to one such glass enclosed case, he noted that some of the dolls were downright plain. More like straw effigies than anything else. Without realizing it, he shrugged. For all he knew, a child could have created their own toys. It made sense.

While he was reading some of the literature in that case, a group of middle school children came dashing through the hall, despite cries from teachers and chaperones to cease and desist immediately. Some of the boys, fast approaching puberty, barreled past him. Artie turned toward them to make sure he was clear of their path.

Without warning, one of the older boys shoved a stocky kid with his shoulder. That was enough to send the hapless kid into Artie's side. With a whoosh of air flying from his lungs, Artie's balance vanished in the blink of an eye and he crashed into the glass display cabinet, forearm first.

Shattering glass spewed inward. The cabinet, not all that heavy or wide to begin with, began to rock. He flailed outward with his hands to protect his face from jagged glass edges, and felt the bite of one piece scraping the outside of his wrist. Red beads welled up immediately though he was completely unaware of them, so startled was he by the unfortunate turn of events.

Arching his back, he managed to rock away from it. As he withdrew, his peripheral vision picked up an unexpected movement. Instinct made him jerk his head toward it, and he immediately saw something falling. Reflexes honed by years of training didn't desert him, and his hand shot out to catch it, though his first thought was why bother?

Looking down, he studied what his hand had caught…a small effigy, simple straw and twine bindings. Eyeless, mouth-less, nothing but a body, head, and four blunt limbs. The overhead lighting caught a shimmer of something on it but otherwise it was a primitive doll, the kind of thing his younger nieces used to craft out of colorful yard and gift to him over the holidays. The fact was he still had some of them tucked away in a dresser drawer because of the joy the memories brought him.

Blowing out a ragged breath in relief, he realized the worse that had happened was the presence of a small cut on the outside of his right hand and the damage to his pride at being toppled by a prepubescent boy.

Glancing down once more at the effigy lying in his palm, he deftly flipped it around without causing further damage, and placed it back in its general position within the cabinet. Most of the other items had fallen or shifted and he knew the curators weren't going to be happy but there was nothing he could do about it.

Within a minute of the mishap, a museum guard showed up, the director in tow.

"Oh my God!" the tall, gaunt gray-haired man moaned, fists clenched by his side as if he wanted to hit something. He fixed Artie with a 'if looks could kill' glare. "What happened?"

Nielsen tensed. The question may have sounded innocent but it really meant, "What did you do?" He pointed in the direction of the nearest hall and said, "Some students got a bit rambunctious and barreled into me, pushing me into this." He gestured with the bloody hand. He stopped, noted the fact that his blood was already clotting, and fished for a tissue in one pocket. As he cautiously wiped away the drying blood to assess the full damage, he added, "No harm done to the display aside from the case itself. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to wash up. Just point me in the direction of the men's room.

Still glaring suspiciously at the injured man, the director did as requested. Artie strolled off, but never reached his objective. The Farnsworth's tinny buzz echoed slightly in the museum hallways. He ignored it, knowing Pete or Myka would phone him next. As anticipated, the cell rang about a minute later.

Opening it left handed, he said, "Yeah, what's up."

"Just checking in. We've got some background info and wanted to go over it with you, three heads better than two, ya know."

"Fine, fine," Artie responded, shaking his free hand while they spoke, as if that would alleviate the burning. Without preamble, Myka proceeded to supply directions. "I'll be right there. Just give me time to catch a cab.

He hung up, thrust the phone back in his coat pocket, and headed for the exit.

After calling for transportation, he wandered over to an antiques store across the street. He spent the ensuing fifteen minutes picking up various items, examining them and returning them to their places of origin. A number of beautifully carved crystal perfume bottles sparkled in the sunlight attracting his attention. He selected one of the most artistic, opened it and glanced inside though he already knew it was empty. Inhaling slightly, he wondered if the lingering traces of some exotic perfume still lingered there while common sense told him it was impossible. Common sense won the debate. The bottle was gently settled back in its spot on the display case.

Not more than a minute later, his ride pulled up and he plopped onto the seat with a weighty sigh. Pulling the cab's door closed made the cut on his hand sting. He took the opportunity to assess the damage by probing the cut with a tentative forefinger. It was small, not too deep and no longer bleeding. The pain was already dissipating to the point of being almost non-existent.

As he tried to rub the few specks of dried blood from his palm, he noted a faint silvery, almost pearlescent coloring right in the center. Pushing his wire-rimmed glasses farther up on his nose, he dipped his head for a closer look. Aside from the tiny glittering flecks, nothing was amiss. He attempted to rub them off but they adhered as if glued. 'Oh well,' he thought, 'it'll probably come off when I get the rest of the blood off.'

The cab driver dropped him off a few minutes later and he paid the fare plus a generous tip. Walking into the restaurant, he quickly located the table. Both agents looked tense but excited as if this was going better for them than expected. Artie was pleased. Clearly his suggestions were paying off.

He eased into the spare seat with a satisfied grunt and snatched up a menu. He was so hungry everything looked tasty but he quickly settled on the more pedestrian fare…cheeseburger and fries, if only to avoid having to wait on something requiring longer cooking times.

"You all right?" Myka queried after he gave his order.

"Yeah, sure, sure, why do you ask?"

"You've been scratching your palm since you sat down."

Artie glanced down quizzically, not even aware he was doing it. The palm was clean and dry, not red or swollen. Heck, aside for the faintest itch, he couldn't find anything wrong. "Don't know. I cut myself earlier. Maybe I got some glass particles under the skin and didn't realize it at the time. No big deal. It doesn't even hurt anymore." He proffered the hand, palm up, for their perusal to prove his point. "Okay, what have ya got?"

"All those murders at the nursing home appear to be caused by a blunt object."

Artie looked at them over the top of his glasses. "Interesting. And not unexpected." His voice was mellow, almost disinterested, but clearly he wanted them to continue. When they said nothing, he prompted, "So, what else?"

And a few beats, Pete got down to business. "We did get basics from the police but not much. I also decided to pay a visit to the local newspaper. Told him I was FBI and looking into it." He snorted derisively. "Flashed my badge real quick. He bought it. Suggested a swap of info and I coerced him into spilling first then told him, 'Oops, too bad, so sad, I had nothing to give at that point.' Naturally, he was pissed but I kept him in line by telling him I'd discuss facts after I'd gotten something worthwhile and had it approved by my boss."

Artie tugged at his lower lip for a second and shrugged, a gesture that said, okay, that'll work for now. He rotated his right hand like the hands going around a clock to encourage them to move along.

"Well, I now know that there's been another murder. That makes the four you discovered while back…home…and another yesterday. Three were seniors, one a nurse. And the last one was also a resident."

"All female," Myka piped in sounding slightly annoyed. "And so far there have been no witnesses."

"So what else is new," Pete muttered. "Regular cops get witnesses, but we get weirdness. Anyway, I'm thinking the perp is male.

Myka said airily, "Not necessarily."

"Come on, Myka, We both know the profile. This type of violent battering is typically perpetrated by men. According to Albright, that's the reporter by the way, these people ended up with crushed skulls, broken bones, ribs, you name it. It was brutal."

"Okay," Artie nodded, lightly running his fingers over his goatee as he pondered the information just presented. "Let's just agree for now that we're looking for a male, presumably young and powerful enough to do such damage. However, be mindful that senior's bones are much more frail. A very angry younger woman could do similar damage."

"I was thinking the same thing," agreed Myka as she straightened up. "Meaning it might be safe to rule out older seniors of both sexes."

Artie, tone still mild, said, "I wouldn't rule anything out just yet. If an artifact is behind it, it could be lending it's 'strength' to the wielder, making anyone influenced more powerful. Young or old, male or female. Makes no difference when an artifact is in control."

"Let's focus on the men for now," Pete suggested, turning on his "I'm in charge" voice. He quickly realized his attempts at profiling were getting flushed down the toilet but kept his anger in check.

Myka looked like she wanted to argue with her partner then remembered their deal. She could still think independently and observe freely, so she let it go.

"That includes…" Artie prompted.

"Anyone male, below the age of roughly sixty five or seventy, relatively healthy…attendants, docs, male nurses, visitors."

"And?"

"And keeping eyes open for likely female suspects also," Pete finished, finally conceding the point to Artie.

Artie took a sip of his drink, rubbed both hands together to get off the condensation rather than using a napkin, and sat back. "So the first action will be?"

"Head over there, check logs for visitors. Interview staff…"

"Nursing supervisor and director first." Artie interjected. "They might get a bit touchy if you go in asking questions without clearing things with them first."

"Naturally," Pete answered confidently as if that he been his plan all along. "Uh, and of course, while I'm walking around, I'll see if I get a sense that things are not quite right, and Myka can use those sharp eyes of hers to see if anything seems out of place."

Taking a bite of her salad, Myka fixed him with a mild stare and chewed thoughtfully. She knew that Pete was acknowledging her superb skills of observation in studying behavior and surroundings.

Eventually, Myka nodded in agreement and Artie smiled at the both of them. This kind of cooperation was working out better than he dreamed possible.

"Sounds like a plan," sighed Artie, brushing the back of his palm across his forehead to wipe away tiny beads of perspiration. Neither of his partners noticed. They simply got up to leave, after depositing a healthy tip and cash for the bill and after doing the same, Artie followed them out to the street.

The walk to the car was several blocks and they were in no great hurry, especially not after eating, so a leisurely stroll was in order.

They passed several adult males, all in suits, clearly out for a meal themselves, though whether they were coming or going was impossible to tell. Neither secret service agent was aware that Artie was lagging behind for at least a minute. Myka noticed first. "Hey step it up, Artie." She paused, seeing a very odd look on his face. "Artie? You okay?" The man's eyes were a bit glazed and he was staring at her with an odd mixture of confusion and something…turbulent.

He ignored the question for no more than three seconds before capturing her eyes directly. Clearly his mind was back with them again. Shrugging it off, but mentally noting it, she caught back up to Pete who'd stopped to wait on them.

A woman, slender, mid thirties, moderately attractive though very short, sashayed past them. She added more hip action for Pete's benefit, backed up by a glittering smile, then stopped to window shop.

"Yeah, right." Myka thought. She knew the woman was hoping Pete would turn back. It was all the more audacious because the woman had no idea if Myka was 'with' Pete or just beside him. Slightly miffed, Myka surreptitiously elbowed him to keep him from getting sidetracked. It worked.

Then all hell broke loose. From behind them a woman shrieked, and there was a smothered gasp. Both agents wheeled to catch the most shocking sight of their none-too-sheltered lives.

They noted Artie, hands clasping both sides of the woman's face. She became unbalanced on stiletto's that still didn't bring her past 5'4". She tried to arch away but Artie was stronger than he looked. No one could miss the look of lust and adoration on his face and that terrified Myka. Something was very wrong. She tried to race back but it was too late. Artie pulled the struggling woman closer and kissed her, deeply, passionately.

"Artie!" Myka hollered, "What the heck are you doing?"

Pete joined her but by the time they'd gotten to the embracing couple, it was all but over. Artie released her, staggered back, swaying slightly, and looked around him in confusion.

The woman, gasping like an Olympic sprinter, finally got another scream out, though it was fueled more by anger than fear at that point. She took a mighty swing at Nielsen with hands tipped by glamour length nails but missed him in her frenzy to lash out. Myka and Pete got on either side of her and walked her away, talking furiously. Myka was apologizing. Pete was saying their friend had just lost the love of his life and had gone out drinking and was so totally plastered that he had no idea what he was doing. They both promised they'd keep an eye on him and get him home safely.

Once back with their boss, Myka went on the warpath. "I can't believe you did that. What's gotten into you?"

Artie leaned back against a store front, throwing his head back against the glass loud enough to thump it and earn a hollered "Hey" from the owner inside.

Breathing heavily, he gave her that same odd look as before. She unconsciously backed up a bit so that she was about four feet away, and just to the left of Pete.

When he finally answered her question, his voice was weak, breaking as if from thirst. "I have no idea why I did that. She was just standing--" He stopped speaking and pointed at the location she'd been in. "I slowed down to see what she was looking at, and…and…I just had to…" He gestured toward his mouth as if it hurt him to say the words. Kissing her had been but one small part of the problem. Clearly he comprehended his actions had been unsolicited and unwelcome, and worthy of assault charges. "Thanks for dealing with it, because I have no idea what I'd have said."

"Well, don't do it again!" Myka growled, leaning toward him for emphasis in exactly the same manner as when she spoke to him through the Farnsworth.

Flushing a deep shade of red that flamed upward from neck to hairline, Artie just shook his head. He had no explanation, and as she said, he had no excuses. The compulsion had faded as fast as it had cropped up. Taking a deep breath in through his nose and blowing it out through pursed lips, drawing forth a slight whistle, he pushed off from the wall. "Let's get out of here. Do what we gotta do, and get back. I'm really not feeling all that great."

"Fever, nausea?" Pete chimed in.

"No—no—no—nothing like that. Just odd. Can't explain it."

Pete patted him on the back, grabbed Artie's coat, and gave him a brief but friendly shake. "Keep it in gear, dude. No more of that stuff while we're on assignment, ya hear."

Artie gave a lop-sided grin in response, clearly rallying though he wasn't sure what he was rallying from.

"You first," gestured Pete, indicating Artie should lead, and therefore stay in their sights. The smaller man looked up at both Pete and Myka, shrugged and took point.

They passed several more men, and a group of young girls doing double Dutch on the cleared sections of sidewalk. They paid the adults no heed. Artie did glance at them for a few seconds, more in curiosity at their dancing moves than anything else, but kept moving.

A trio of women, all around their mid to late fifties, and dressed in warm coats, winter hats, and gloves or mittens, smiled at Artie who dipped his chin in acknowledgement. Then he froze. The nearest woman, walking slower than the others gave him a quizzical, searching look which turned to pure unadulterated shock as he wrapped his arms around her and drew her into heated embrace.

Lattimer and Bering froze in astonishment. "Not again!" Pete muttered under his breath.

The woman looked like she wanted to fight but couldn't work up the steam to break free. Fortunately for her, the kiss didn't last long. She managed to stagger free, regained her footing, and opened her mouth to scream. But then her face relaxed into the oddest expression. She touched her lips, as if they still felt his kiss. Then she backed away. The other arm rose as if to ward him off but it stopped in mid elevation. Instead she patted her perfectly coiffed hair, readjusted her red beret, which had nearly slid off, and bestowed on him a wistful, dreamy smile, as if remembering romantic times of long ago. Her momentary hesitation allowed Pete to intervene.

Rushing to her side, Pete moved Artie back a few paces. "Sorry, so sorry," he apologized, because clearly Artie wasn't in any shape to do it. By way of explanation he made motions of upending a bottle several times to the lips. Heck, if it worked the first time, surely it'd work again.

Nodding in Nielsen's direction, he added, "Partying too hearty, huh?" He smiled warmly at her, the same smile that wooed hearts everywhere he went. The kind of smile that softened anger and defrayed sticky situations. "We'll keep an eye on him. You have my word on it. I'll get him home. Drown him in coffee. Lots and lots of coffee!"

Happily, the woman didn't seem inclined to push the issue. Perhaps the smile worked. Or perhaps those old memories were still swirling around her head. In either case, the matter appeared over. She strolled off to rejoin her friends who, oblivious to it all, only turned inquiring eyes on her. When she rejoined them there was a moment of brief conversation, some high pitched giggles, and all three heads quickly swiveled around to gaze at the trio of agents. The matter formally ended, they moved on.

"Way to stay incognito," Lattimer's soft, smooth, almost husky voice stated. It was clear he was amused rather than frustrated.

However, Myka had had it. "Enough! Artie!" she growled louder, almost getting in his face. She geared up for a stern lecture if only because she found this strange behavior more embarrassing than her boss did and had to vent her frustration. "Talk to me. What's eating you?"

Artie pinched the bridge of his nose and smothered a crude comment then wondered where the hell that thought came from. And instantly he smelled it... perfume. Myka smelled delicious, alluring, sexy…and as fast as a thought, he cupped her face in both hands and their lips met, his soft and caressing, hers, normally full and always looking kissable, turning hard and unyielding. 'What is it with me and men?' She wondered as she struggled to break free.

He really was deceptively strong and getting loose without resorting to violence was a chore and a half. In the midst of trying to pry his hands free without earning some bruises for her trouble, she noticed the strangest thing. A heady fragrance. Men's cologne? Earthy, enticing, irresistible…

For the briefest of seconds, she wanted to surrender to it. To him.

Panicking as she felt herself being overwhelmed by the scent, she shoved him hard. "Artie!! Let me go!" Part of her was horrified that he was doing this to her. It was like getting romantically kissed by an uncle. The other part hated having to stop, and that shocked her most of all. She discovered, much to her chagrin, that she was far less disgusted than she should have been. It had been reasonably pleasant for all its brevity. She grew aware of his scent still lingered in her nostrils, beckoning…

Eyes blinking rapidly, she mentally slapped herself. 'Focus! Stay focused,' her inner self chastised. She felt herself gasping as anger tried to reassert itself.

Luckily for both of them, Pete stepped in, and gently yet firmly further separated the two heavily breathing agents. Struggling not to laugh, he put some backbone into his words. "Hey, guys, now you're really embarrassing me. Myka, far be it for me to tell you who to make out with, but this is insane…no offense, man," he said as an aside to Nielsen, "and you both need to get a grip and save it for later. I mean, you'll scar the kids for life."

For Myka's part, she had the good grace not to swear at her superior or at Pete, for that matter. She inhaled deeply, noting the delightful scent dissipating the farther she walked away from her compatriots.

Anger warred with compassion. This wasn't one lonely man going off the deep end for no good reason, she reasoned. This was Warehouse 13 Freakshow stuff, as Pete would surely have said if he wasn't thinking that very thing already. She glanced at the taller man and saw it in his expression. He had been following her train of thought.

"Jeez! Not again." Lattimer groaned and stiffened his spine. "You okay?" he then asked, looking from one to the other. Myka nodded. Still hunched slightly, Artie merely shrugged his shoulders.

Starting to pace in a very small area, Pete reached out both hands in supplication. "Tell me…tell me what this is? I know you're affected by something. It's happened sort of like this before. Different responses but just as unexplained.

Myka chimed in pleasantly, trying to lighten the mood, "I gotta ask, Artie. Just to be sure. You didn't do it on purpose, right?"

"Oh course not," responded Artie, voice barely above a whisper, not possessing the courage to look Myka in the eye. "You know I'm not like this. I'm never like this.

Myka nodded. She'd heard this speech before on a previous mission. "I believe you," she told him, getting that same feeling of déjà vu as she spoke the words. She'd said the same thing to another guy acting in a similar way, except that the other guy's hands kept mysteriously finding their way to her breasts. At least all Artie had done was kiss her. It was definitely the lesser of two evils and she felt any residual anger dissipate with an almost audible pop.

"Have any idea what provoked this?" She inquired hopefully but was disappointed when he shook his head wearily.

"Nope. None. But then again, I'm having a heard time thinking straight every time you get closer. God, you smell incredible!" he blurted and shifted his feet. She danced lightly out of reach. Out of his personal space. She saw him relax. That was it! Each of the other 'victims' had been in close proximity when he'd gone after them.

Hands on hips, head slightly cocked to the side, she mimicked Pete's earlier pacing and said, "I'm not wearing perfume. Not unless you include deodorant but that's a mild fragrance. Most people wouldn't even notice. So why are you so sensitive?"

Again, a quick shake of his head, eyes fairly rolling in confusion. "I'm sorry. It's just…What? Please stop pacing!"

Doing as he asked, Myka looked skyward for the answers. Nothing was immediately forthcoming, so she looked at the culprit again. "As soon as we get a chance, we'll have to figure this out."

Then, as an afterthought, she inquired, "Artie, are you wearing cologne?"

He looked at her quizzically. "Um, no? Like you said, just store-bought deodorant and I try not to wear anything scented. Old habit. Strong colognes can be remembered by people we meet and it's best not to attract attention if you want to operate undercover."

Nodding, Pete interjected, "Preaching to the choir, buddy. We all went through the same programs."

"Seems we're both experiencing heightened sensitivity to scents," Myka observed. "You, clearly, more than me. In fact, I'm guessing it's just you, and I was only effected because you were so close."

"Oh God!" moaned Artie again, rubbing his forehead as if it was aching. "Don't remind me." He finally brought his eyes up to meet hers head on. "I'll think about this while we make our way to the Willowbrook complex. Maybe by then it'll come to me. Meanwhile, I think I'll ride in back, as far from you as possible."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

Chapter 4

The trip to the complex went smoothly though Artie, nostrils flaring every time he caught a whiff of heady perfume, had quickly rolled down the window, allowing frigid air to pour in. That, at least, helped some.

The grounds around the nursing home were basically deserted. A few people, mostly staff, were walking to and from the largest buildings, stately structures more reminiscent of a college campus than a medical facility. Several septogenarian women hobbled slowly toward a shuttle bus, closely passing by the newcomers.

Once out of the vehicle, Pete decided to run interference for Myka's sake by intentionally inserting his tall muscular frame between his partner and his boss. Artie sighed loudly but declined to comment. Instead, he added an additional two feet distance from Pete's left side until the heat in his chest, head and…elsewhere…faded to tolerable levels.

"This is ridiculous," the man muttered under his breath but not so softly that it couldn't be heard.

Lattimer edged closer. "Don't worry about it. If you can't think of anything, we'll figure it out soon as we get the murder and mayhem under control here."

"I'm not worried," came the response through gritted teeth. "I'm mortified. Those people back there will always think…forget it, I don't even want to think about what they think. I'm more concerned about what the police will think if this gets reported."

Leaning over, a huge grin on her face, Myka stated, "I can envision the news stories now! "Arthur Nielsen nailed for sexual assault on old ladies."

"Hey!! Only one was older, and she was hardly ancient…" Suddenly his mouth slammed shut with an audible click of teeth. Regaining composure, he continued. "I'm glad you find this so humorous. Go on, keep it up. I'll remember this the next time you decide to pop a cop and call for bail money!"

Stopping dead in her tracks she pointed at Pete, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable.

"But Pete bailed me…" started Myka, eyebrows knitting so close they could kiss.

Hand raised to forestall comment, Artie said, "But Pete nothing. He reported to me as protocol stipulates. And I handled it. Isn't that right?"

There was no answer from the taller man. Myka saw it clearly. He'd led her to believe he had posted bail.

"Hey, wait a minute," Myka cried, punching Lattimer in the shoulder hard enough to shift the man closer to Artie. "You son of a …" she stifled the next word, then glared at Nielsen, who side-stepped even farther away. "Do you know what he did?" she queried though a nearly closed throat.

Artie shook his head, looking perplexed. This mollified her slightly and her volume dropped a notch. "I've been trying to pay him back for the cash he supposedly shelled out that day I got busted. He's been acting all selfless, like it was nothing. Like he couldn't care less if I did or didn't cover the debt!"

"Really, Myka," Pete said in placating tones, raised hands warding off her aggression. "Don't you think you're over-reacting just a little bit?" He almost pinched thumb and forefinger together with only a sliver of light to be seen. "It was a harmless…"

"Don't you dare try to turn call it a 'misunderstanding', she growled.

"I was going to say 'joke'. It's not like I actually got any money out of you."

Voice starting to carry again, Myka nearly shrieked out, "That's not the point!"

"Hey guys," Artie put a finger to his lips, starting toward them, instinct pushing him to break it up physically but then "it" happened again. Myka, fixated on her argument with Pete, didn't realize her boss was too close. Pupils widening, skin flushed, his hand reached to pull her face close.

Years of martial arts triggered muscle memory and without thought Myka lightly danced out of his way. In a blur of motion, she quickly maneuvered his arm behind his back. Artie hollered in pain, as Pete started to close in, calling, "Myka, this won't work, you're still inside his personal space, remember?"

Bering had indeed forgotten that in this instance 'flight' was preferable to fight. She hadn't even relaxed her grip, however, when Artie enacted his own countermove, taking her by surprise and ruining her balance.

"Of course," she thought as she stumbled, "old combat techniques were probably ingrained in him as they'd been in me." As she started to relax her muscles, Pete snagged Artie's coat and physically hauled him away. That separation allowed the shorter man to regain a semblance of sanity.

"Damn!" Artie moaned, bending at the waist, panting more from the mental battles than the physical ones. "We gotta do something about this quick before she puts me in the hospital." He rubbed his shoulder and experimentally shrugged the arm in a full rotation, wincing as he did so.

Pete smiled behind one raised hand. Clearly Artie wasn't beyond playing the sympathy card even if he had no right to do so.

"Sorry," Myka stated, not sounding like she meant it. The fact was she had donned her battle armor, psychologically speaking. To Pete, she suggested, "Why don't you walk him back to the truck. He'd be…safer…there."

"I don't know if that's wise," Lattimer responded, running long fingers through his thick, close-cropped hair.

"What's not wise?" She inquired, anger building again. Challenging, always challenging me, her inner self griped.

Sensing the shift in her mood, Pete's tone softened instinctively. "Leaving him unattended."

That placating attitude only infuriated her more. She leaned her slender torso closer as if the mere force of her presence would make him back down.

"Hey. HEY! I don't enjoy being in the middle of all this bickering. Especially when it concerns me." Nielsen put both balled fists on his hips. "Pete's right. Leaving me by myself might be...disastrous. The problem could grow worse. I might end up wandering…back to town." He emphasized the last two words. Then, as an afterthought, he stated. "Being ripped to shreds by a horde of angry women is not how I planned on exiting this life but that's exactly what'll happen if I'm on the loose."

The partners exchanged calculating glances. Lattimer was the first to speak. "That'd be real ugly," he agreed, trying not to smirk. "If they killed Artie, We'd have to face Mrs. Frederic without him running interference for us. She already makes my insides writhe around and dealing with her frequently would make me wish I'd gone down with Artie. I hate to pull rank, but I'm still in charge and I say he stays with us. Besides the quicker we find the artifact, the quicker we can get out of here. Artie's extra eyes and ears would be useful."

"It's not the eyes and ears I'm worried about, it's the lips!" She paused after noting the hurt look on her boss's face. "Okay, fine bring him. But you make darn sure he keeps his hands off anything still breathing."

Making a gagging face, Pete said, "That's just plain disgusting!" He looked directly at Artie. "Hey buddy, better fess up now. You're not prone to necrophil…" He never finished the word. Artie, he noted, had parked himself on a nearby bench. His face was impassive, eyes unfocused behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

"Artie?" Myka came back, but not so close that she could influence him.

Nielsen's brown orbs glittered suddenly and snapped toward Pete who appeared to be revving up for further commentary. "Shhh! Quiet! I'm formulating a theory. Let me chew on it a moment."

After a minute, an impatient Pete asked, "Well?"

"I think you may have hit on it with that loathsome joke about necrophilia." He stood and walked to Lattimer, having to crane his neck back to look the younger agent in the face. "I may not be sure what's provoking this just yet, but one thing's certain. It was not triggered by the young girls jumping rope. And not at all by the older seniors who passed by when we first arrived here.

"So?" was the response, sounding more like a prompt than a question.

Cleary Artie was warming to the subject. "What if it's triggered by female pheromones? Estrogen levels wax in youth, wane in old age. Simply put, it affects our mechanism for biochemically attracting the opposite sex. Our pheromones and we all possess them, by the way, probably strengthen then weaken as we age. Remember the instant connection between the olfactory… that's smell to you, Pete…receptors in the nose and its corresponding center in the brain? Certain scents can provoke distinct responses in people. What if I came in contact with something that has altered my brain chemistry, which consequently made me more sensitive to the aforementioned pheromones?"

Myka, standing against Pete's back, looked skyward in deep thought. "Alright. I can buy that. But the question still remains, what caused it?"

"Yeah, and how do we find the antidote?" Pete queried his beautiful associate.

Shaking her head, she answered, "I have no idea, but it could get worse than that."

"What could be worse?" Pete sounded like his head hurt, which wasn't all that unusual. Keeping up with Artie's super sonic thought processes and Myka's almost encyclopedic memory, was enough to give anyone a headache.

She explained, "What if this doesn't wear off without such an antidote? And what if we found something to negate the effect of the, what…what do we call it, aphrodisiac…?"

"Natural Viagra," Pete supplied, not really helping matters.

"Most drugs are 'natural', Pete," Artie pointed out. He was looking vaguely nauseated as well. "Comes from flowers, parts of plants, tree bark and so on. And I'm sure you know it too.

"Whatever," Myka said, dismissing Artie with a flick of her slender fingers. Instantly rounding on Pete again, she added, "I just wanted to point out that we'd have no idea what 'dose' to administer. It could be insufficient or it could leave him totally…um…uninterested, perhaps forever."

Pete noticed the twinkle in her eyes, and decided to play along. He crossed hands went down to shield his groin. "Heck, don't worry. The guy lives like a monk anyway, so it wouldn't matter!" He gestured his thumb at the object of their discussion, clearly acting like the man's feelings didn't count.

"My love life is none of your business, Lattimer!" Artie bellowed, noticeably reddening. He flew to his feet. "I can't believe you have the audacity to joke about this. Clearly, I need to drum up more assignments so you'll have fewer opportunities to dwell on how I spend my personal time!"

Myka grinned at Pete. "Bingo!"

"Hole in one!" he agreed, mimicking a golf swing.

"Shut up both of you!" Crossing his arms over his chest, legs spread in a wide stance, Artie glared at them. "People. Dying. Murder, remember?"

Without comment, though still smiling broadly, Pete gestured with an 'after you' sweep of his hand.

In unison, the three agents entered the structure.

True to form, they instantly put on their game faces and got directions to the medical director's office. Three badges, complete with IDs were flashed in the poor man's face but he didn't cave as quickly as Pete hoped. There were the usual debates over patient rights and the hastily surrendered assurances that no one's privacy would be violated. The questions, Pete assured the man, weren't medical in nature, and were going to focus on the facts of the deaths.

Unfortunately for them, the guy was stronger willed than expected and he insisted on their speaking directly to the Administrator first. After getting additional directions to the executive office, Pete rapped lightly on the closed door.

"Enter," a female voice said perfunctorily.

Looking at each other, the three agents entered the office which held a large desk and several leather chairs. An ornate name plate with letters etched into it was centered on the desk and immediately caught the eyes of people entering the room. It read, "Dorothy Gehrhardt". The woman behind the desk was fiftyish, with perfectly styled hair of a bronze color clearly from a bottle, a solid figure that hadn't gone fat but was no longer thin, and lips that might have been attractive but were down-turned into a sour expression.

"Ms. Gehrhardt," said Pete, his voice soft and courteous, yet professional. "My name is Peter Lattimer, and this is Myka Bering, and Arthur Nielsen." He pulled out his badge as did Myka, flashing it before her. He was planning on a quick withdrawal of the item but she grabbed it with a raptor-like hand to steady it. The ID was closely studied, and then she beckoned for Myka's which was quickly proffered. After a moment, when it looked like she was satisfied, she leaned back. That was not the end though.

"And you," she stated, more fact than query. "Let's see it."

Myka and Pete looked at each other. Heck, Artie hadn't even showed them his ID when asked, but the man inched closer, reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a standard issue badge/ID holder. Not bothered to open it, he hastily offered it to Ms. Gehrhardt who scrutinized it as closely as she had the other two. Artie hastily stepped back. A light sheen of perspiration was beading on his upper cheeks while he impatiently waited for her to finish.

Once the ID was back in his hand and restored to the pocket, he surreptitiously placed himself several feet back from the other two agents.

"Please have a seat. I presume you are here because of the murders. What I don't understand is why you were called in. Not your usual purview is it? Seems rather odd since the police are diligently looking into it already."

"Yes, Ma'am," Lattimer nodded. "We are well aware the police are involved and I'm sure they are doing an admirable job. We're not here to step on any toes, I assure you. We were just sent to see if we could be of assistance."

"Not likely," she responded skeptically. "No need, as I said before."

"Look, I know it's difficult to understand how assignments are divvied out. Heck, we don't understand it ourselves sometimes. But just like with the Charge of the Light Brigade, we are called in and we go, no questions asked."

"Ms. Gehrhardt, you can see we are legitimate. And we do have our orders," Explained Myka. "No one wants to step on the toes of the officials here in town. Our goal is just to ask some questions, see if we can come up with something concrete and then hand it over for the police to deal with."

While the discussion was taking place, Artie had slowly worked his way to the room's one large picture window, which at the moment was blocked by vertical blinds. With one hand poking through the hanging slats, he craned his head to see through them. The gesture seemed innocent enough to everyone watching and it kept him from being near anyone there. He drew a deep breath and turned toward the woman. "Nice grounds," he complimented conversationally.

"Thank you. We take pride in offering the best to our residents. It's a bit difficult to appreciate with the winter so hard upon us."

"Nonsense," Artie assured her. "There's natural beauty to be found no matter the time of year."

The woman's chin dipped in acknowledgement.

"I was also impressed with how efficient your staff is."

"Your point, Agent Nielsen?"

"No point. Just observation." He reseated the slat so that it hung perfectly in line with the others. "To address your concerns, these two…" and he gestured at them with a forefinger, "…are experienced agents. But this kind of field work isn't usually their forte and management felt it would good for them to broaden their…horizons…as it were. Get them doing a different form of investigation than what they are accustomed to."

Shrugging his shoulders, he walked a few steps toward the desk but stopped at a respectable distance, hands rammed far into slacks pockets. Voice mellowed, he added "Nothing is going to be harmed by them doing an independent investigation. They're really adept at figuring things out.

A hard calculating stare bore down on them, but then she tilted back in her chair, adopting a more relaxed pose. "I don't suppose you'd mind if I contact the local sheriff."

"Not at all," Artie said with a tiny bow. Again the woman tried to stare him down but Nielsen had faced off against the best, Mrs. Frederic to be specific, and this woman was not in that league.

"Fine, but be as unobtrusive as possible, if you don't mind. Get the medical director to make introductions, keep the questions brief and to the point. And since this is a homicide investigation, there really is no need to infringe on patient privacy now is there."

"No need at all. This will strictly be about the murders, nothing else."

"Very well. John Stinson, who you've already met, can point you in the right direction. For the sake of our residents, go easy with the questions. Be mindful that if they get agitated, it makes dealing with them later that much more difficult."

"Understood." Artie's voice had dropped an octave lending a note of gravity to the word.

Myka, realizing that somehow control of the situation had slipped from them to their boss, took the initiative to end on a positive note. "We promise to be gentle and tactful, Mrs. Gehrhardt."

"Yes, we'll keep it brief." Pete also assured her.

"Thank you," the woman stated in a matronly sort of way, and swept her arm to the office door. Dismissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

Chapter 5

The trio vacated the office at a normal pace. During the walk back to Stinson's office, Pete's head was slowly swiveling from side to side, clearly trying to read the 'vibes' of the place without looking too conspicuous. Cataloging everything, Myka strode beside him, tall, graceful, and eminently confident. She truly looked like the Secret Service agent she was, and that bearing did manage to catch the attention of a few of the male attendants walking the halls. The female nurses noted the same things but for entirely different reasons.

Artie kept close to the wall, careful to avoid any woman, whether employee or patient. Everything would be ruined if his 'condition' reared its amorous head. That meant being extra vigilant. He did note with some relief that his basic assumption was correct. The older residents weren't affecting him.

Many of the residents were passing by at that time of day, some shambling along unaided or with hands gliding along walls, some in wheelchairs pushed by nurses, others on their own and aided by canes and assorted styles of walkers.

One old man whacked Myka's leg with his cane as he passed, eliciting a grunt of pain from her, but he kept walking as if unaware he'd done something wrong. A nurse caught up with him, calling, "Mr. MacGregor, now you know you shouldn't be out by yourself. Let me help you."

"God, I hope I never end up like that," Pete muttered to Myka, who only gave him a withering glance. She'd been thinking that if she survived the years of warehouse assignments, she'd end up like these people eventually and wasn't sure she wanted to be living like that either. But she wasn't about to admit it to him.

Not long afterward, the agents found the person they were looking for.

After getting the required information from Dr. Stinson, they sat down in a room to review the facts surrounding the demise of the four patients and one nurse. Myka and Pete sat next to each other. Crossing to the far side of the room, Artie parked himself at the far end of the table, sighing heavily.

"How you holding up?" inquired Myka. As time had passed, Nielsen had become more a friend and less of a boss, and she was genuinely concerned at how ragged he looked.

"As well as can be expected," was the tired reply. "Thankfully, I'm keeping things under control for now. But stay alert. Just in case."

Chuckling, Myka said, "Don't worry. We will. The alternative would be embarrassing for everyone."

Artie simply grunted.

Looking up from the paperwork, Pete inquired, "Any more thoughts on what's been going on with you?"

Intense brown eyes captured Pete's gaze. "Actually, I have. And I've figured out some important things. Namely, the young lady provoked a response for obvious reasons. Most likely pheromones as I said. But why the older lady I kept asking myself. And I believe the answer to that is simple. And related. Lady number one was in her peak years, lots of hormone production. Lady number two was in the tail end of those years, undoubtedly post menopausal. We know that estrogen is still produced by the body even at that point though in far less amounts. Also it isn't unusual for a woman her age to be taking replacement hormones."

"True," Myka agreed, following the gist of it. "But not everyone her age would be doing that. Second, I've been watching and unless they were a good ten years older, you got that funny look in your eye."

Artie combed his fingers through a head full of tight dark curls that barely showed any gray beyond the temples. "Yes, but let me throw an idea out there. We are altering our body chemistry and often don't realize it. Are you aware that many products contain estrogen mimics?"

"Estrogen mimics?" Pete repeated, sounding perplexed and out of his league. The only estrogen he cared about was what could be racing through an attractive woman giving him bedroom eyes. "You mean like hormones the body doesn't produce naturally?"

"Exactly. DEHP, DBP, Bisphenol to name some common ones. They are found in cosmetics among other things. In cleaning products and plastic bottles too, if you can believe that. This isn't pure natural estrogen but in the body, it can have a similar effect, and I'm wondering if the second woman was wearing cosmetics with such mimics in them. Maybe that was what caught my…attention. Maybe my senses aren't discriminating between natural and artificial at the moment."

"Of course not. Men rarely discriminate, " thought Myka, " when they're seriously in the mood." But she didn't voice it. Instead, she said, "Sounds reasonable. On the other hand that might broaden our area of concern. Any woman wearing cosmetics or creams with those things could pose a problem."

One eyebrow jumped suddenly. "Too true."

"And you're still stuck with it until we figure out how to counteract it." Pete interjected.

"Well, I've been thinking about that too. Nothing out of the ordinary happened before this started except a slight accident at the museum."

"Accident," both agents repeated in perfect unison.

"Yeah. Some rambunctious kids pitched me into a display case. There was some broken glass. Pissed off the curator but I guess I don't blame him." For a second, Artie sounded like he was going to chase that rabbit, but got back on course. "Anyway, there was this effigy on an upper shelf. It was the only thing that came flying out and I caught it with my bare hand. Didn't think anything of it. In fact, I'd replaced it before they knew about it."

"And you think this was some sort of artifact?" Myka asked, instantly alert.

"No," was the reply, and Bering looked momentarily confused.

"But you just said you – "

"What I said is that I caught the effigy. But I don't think that was an artifact. I believe it was something riding on the straw that was the problem. I discovered a glittering residue on my palm afterward. I didn't think it would be a problem, but I noticed it stuck to my skin until I washed it off. The shiny stuff didn't look like it was part of the straw. Something was 'off' about it."

"So what are you gonna do about that?"

"Go back after we catch our killer, or find the artifact responsible I mean, and get a better look at that museum piece later on."

"Doesn't put a stop to the symptoms though does it?" That was clearly a rhetorical statement but Artie chose to answer it anyway.

"Here's how I see it. If this is absorbed through the pores and into the blood stream, it's bound to deteriorate with time, all on its own. Assuming it adheres to the red cells within the blood, it takes roughly four weeks for old cells to die and new ones to replace them. So given time, this will be over…hopefully. Fortunately for me, as you both so kindly pointed out earlier, I don't get out much." He gave his patent half-smile.

To avoid further embarrassment, Myka gave Pete a pointed look that said, "No more jokes at his expense", and gave an imperceptible nod toward the folders spread out on the table.

Pulling out a small notebook, Pete gathered the folders to him. "Might as well get this done and tend to the other stuff afterward."

Reaching for the first folder, Myka flipped it open. Most of the sheets had been copied for them and pertinent medical information blacked out.

"Let's match times for this. Review who discovered them. Figure out where they were and what they had been doing prior to being attacked."

An hour later, Myka was still asking her usual question. "They had nothing obvious in common aside from their being assaulted at night. So what are we missing beyond the obvious?"

Giving an overview, Pete supplied. ["]Victim one, eighty four years old, killed in her bed around midnight, found an hour later while on rounds by the nurse, Sue Colton. Sue Colton is still safe and sound, I'm assuming, because she's not listed as a victim. Victim two, nearly 96…whew….killed while sitting on the potty chair in her room. Amazing she could still get out of … "

"Pete!" Myka stated sharply. "Back on track."

"Yeah, yeah, right," he responded sheepishly. "Killed while answering nature's call and answered Saint Peter's summons a few minutes later. Discovered by Stacey Arrington, also while on rounds, though it took a bit longer. Victims three and four were also residents, same estimated time of death. Arrington found one, Colton the other. We need to ask the usual, 'did you hear or see anything' for those two. I know the police asked but we might as well hear it from them."

"Agreed." She got up, walked to the door, peered out, and asked for a cup of water from a passing attendant. The man glared at them since serving guests wasn't in his job description but the unit coordinator heard the request and took over. She stuck her head in.

"Just one?"

"Two." Pete held up two fingers.

"Make it three," said Artie.

Reseating herself, she glanced at the paperwork while Lattimer went on. "Victim five was a fifty two year old nurse. She seems to have walked into a room to check on a resident, came out, logged it in the records, and then went missing. They found her in the morning, in one of the empty rooms. Rigor had already set in.

"Not many common factors," Artie stated. "Same sex, same shift, as you said. We already know all were bludgeoned to death. And I'm gonna go out on a limb here," he added with a hint of ruefulness, "and guess your answer will be no one heard or saw anything."

"Of course not," sighed Pete. "It's like most mystery novels. Only this is worse. We're living it. And I'm not getting any…"

The unit coordinator showed up with the drinks and went around handing them out. As she walked toward Nielsen, he got that wild look in his eyes, and began to clutch the table until the veins in the back of his hands were standing out and his knuckles grew white. Pete inserted himself between boss and unit coordinator, snagged the cup and thanked her before Nielsen could wrestle her onto the table.

Artie wilted as she moved out of range. "Thanks," he muttered.

"No sweat. Now as I was saying…hey, wait a minute…miss? Miss?"

Turning toward him, the woman in question smiled prettily. She was young but boasted an engagement ring on her finger. Still, it didn't prevent her from taking a moment to openly admire the handsome agent. "I'm Nancy by the way. So, is there a problem?" She said it so sweetly that clearly she didn't anticipate any complaints.

"Nah. Just have quick some questions."

"Sure, shoot."

Pete flashed his ID purely out of habit. "You familiar with the murder victims?"

"Sort of. I've seen them in the halls. And I worked with Diane when she was on days. So sad. They've had to double up the night shift, you know. And no one is allowed to do anything by themselves. Hope you guys can do something about this…soon."

"See or hear anything out of the ordinary?" Myka asked, not wanting to be left out.

"Smell anything unusual?" Pete asked.

The pretty young woman lowered her brows in confusion. "What?"

"Nothing, just a joke. The 'did you see or hear anything' line gets pretty old after a while."

She smiled at that. "Yeah, I guess so. But no, I didn't notice anything, at least not during the day. And no one I know on nights mentioned anything either. It goes without saying that those of us on days talk about it…a lot. It's been the hottest topic since that scandal about one of the physical therapists and a couple of nurses making it a threesome in the shower about six months ago."

"Did Diane mention anything before…"

"Nope. I mean nothing specific." She hesitated. "Um…I do recall her saying to me that she was really pissed at one of the residents because he had a bad habit of getting out of bed and wandering, but she was a wonderful person. So patient. She'd never abuse anyone or make them want to get back at her, let alone kill her."

"You catch the name of the resident sleepwalker," Artie asked, sounding somnolent himself.

"Uh, Mr. MacGregor. But trust me, he'd never be responsible. He's the sweetest man. Not always all there. Alzheimers. But he does have good times throughout the day and still recognizes some of his family and the caregivers when he's lucid. Besides, he's getting pretty feeble. Needs a wheelchair on bad days, arthritis you understand, and uses a cane the rest of the time. Anything else?"

Shaking his head, Pete closed with, "No. Thanks. That'll be it for now."

With a shrug of one shapely shoulder, the woman exited.

"Worth looking into?" Pete asked. He may have been in charge this time but never turned down decent help. This was one instance when he wanted Myka's sharp eyes along.

"The last lead, sure."

From there, the trio moved back to the medical director's office and the man made the promised introductions to nurses and staff. Similar questions were asked of all. Nothing was particularly useful. He also took them to see Mr. MacGregor who clearly wasn't having one of his lucid moments so they shelved that for later.

Eventually the demands of the stomach outweighed the demands of the job, and they broke for a hasty meal in the dining room. Guests were eating along side loved ones, and a meal could be purchased cheaply if one was content to eat the few selections on the menu. Myka was picky and ultimately settled for the salad special. Pete and Artie were far less discriminating and ate ravenously. Neither man had any complaints, and Lattimer was overjoyed to find that cookies were usually served as a dessert choice. Artie pulled out a Ziplock bag from his coat pocket filled with a few of his own special creations.

"Mine are better," he commented when Myka gave him that look that said he was being eccentric.

"Now that's true," Pete acknowledged reaching for the bag. He took one, broke a piece off, and popped it into his mouth with a moan of ecstasy.

Offering her the bag, Artie swung it enticingly. He knew she didn't eat sugar unless stressed and this wasn't a very stressful case in her book, but she eyed them longingly for several seconds before gesturing for him to toss the bag her way.

After dinner ended they went back to the tedious interviews. McGregor was still in never-never land. They had just exited through the door when a couple approached the old man's room and poked their heads in.

"Granddad?" they said softly.

No one answered. They slid into the darkened room. Pete's instincts propelled him in their direction. It reminded him that any visitor was also a suspect. McGregor's family visited regularly and he'd noted that they'd been there during the days of all five murders though why such a sweet looking couple would be responsible for such heinous crimes was beyond him.

Seeing his expression Myka rescanned the room, giving it more thorough scrutiny, while Artie stood at the door, well out of her personal space but still able to look in.

Nothing out of the ordinary was noted. The obligatory bed and dresser. An old TV, a closet for clothing. Cards and photos tacked to a cork board across from the bed so the patient could see it. Several functional chairs. A robe thrown across one seat, a cane leaning across it.

Pete nodded at the couple who stared back with curious eyes. "Sorry," he told them. "Just checking the place out, you know?" He made it sound like he was interested in putting a loved one in this facility but he wasn't lying with his words. It was the truth after all. He was checking it out.

Curiously indifferent, the couple nodded at him and turned their attention back to the old man in the bed.

"Interesting cane," Myka stated, leaning in for a better look.

"Guess that's true," the man said noncommittally. "Personally, I wish he'd get rid of it. It's pretty ugly if you ask me."

Pete leaned in for a better look. It was of a normal length but very ornate. A dragon shaped handle, long and flowing, its smooth spine worn from years of palms rubbing against it, was its outstanding feature. Thin strips of metal were wrapped around it, more decorative than functional.

"So why not remove it?" Myka asked, slipping farther into the room for a closer look.

"He seems to know when we try to take it away. He's had it a long time, and I guess it connects him to the present in a way his memories can't," the woman explained.

"Been in the family long?" Artie inquired from the doorway.

Pete and Myka gave each other 'the look'. Was this an artifact? Hard to tell. They weren't going to steal some old man's beloved treasure just because it looked weird.

The young woman turned to face the man questioning them. "Not our family, exactly. We bought this old Victorian. Fixed it up. Gosh, that place was so run down. Anyway, eventually we worked our way to the attic and my son found this up there. Along with a whole lot of junk. Ricky, our son, brought it down to show it to us, and since my grandfather was having trouble walking, he offered it for his use. Grandpa loved it. Thought it made him look…I don't know…classy. So he used it from then on. When he got sick, too sick to…"

A tear slid down her cheek. "…when he got sick, this was one of the things, during his more alert moments, that he insisted on keeping with him. So we gave in and let him bring it."

"How long has he been here?" Artie inquired with great compassion.

"About six months. This illness is progressing much faster than the doctors anticipated." Sniffling, she fished for a tissue. Her loved one was slipping away at an alarming rate and it was clearly eating her up.

Again, it was Artie's turn to put forth a question, "I understand he experiences somnambulation rather frequently. Did he have a problem at home?"

"Somnam…what?"

"Oh, so sorry." Artie flushed sheepishly. "Sleep walking. Was it a problem for you at home?"

"No, never did it at home."

The husband looked at Nielsen with a touch of suspicion. "Why so interested in granddad?"

Pete and Myka withdrew their IDs and presented them. "We're here investigating the murders."

"And what does that have to do with him," the woman cried. "Look at him. He barely recognizes us unless he's having a good day."

"Actually nothing," Artie said soothingly. "We were just curious about anything that might be out of the ordinary. Since discovering he's up and about at night, we initially thought he might have seen something if only in a half remembered dream. But with his mental state, I see that line of questioning is out.

The angry gleam in the man's eyes faded. "I apologize. I understand. Really. We've been terrified he'd be one of the next victims so I really am happy you are looking into it. But I can assure you he knows nothing."

"Thanks for your assistance," Myka told him and started to back out of the room only to bump into Artie who gave her the most pained look before he skated to the opposite side of the hallway. He then raised both hands to indicate he was still in control…barely.

In moments Artie was back before the unit desk, arms resting on the high counter, finger tips absent-mindedly stroking the edge of his mustache. He waited on Nancy to finish a phone call. She threw up a forefinger. One minute, it said. Myka and Pete leaned with their backs to the counter, clearly not out of ear shot but acting like they weren't interested in the conversation. Artie had moved to the far end of the work station, which was all of about 6 feet away, propped up against it. Elbow on table, palm pressed against his cheek, he appeared relaxed yet watchful.

The phone settled into the receiver with a loud 'clack' and they heard Nancy say, "I'm done. What's up?"

Myka had been following Artie's lead. She let him proceed.

"I've got an odd question for you." He paused to let that sink it. "You've said you've been told he sleepwalks. Records show roaming is a common problem here. So I'm sorta curious about something. Why call it sleepwalking when clearly Mr. MacGregor could simply be 'wandering'. With his condition, the latter would be far more likely, right?"

Pondering this a moment, but only a moment as if she'd thought this one through before, she stated, "True. Ordinarily I'd agree with you. But there's this, I don't know, subtle difference in how he 'wanders'. At least that's what Sue Colton says. I can't really explain it well, but I'm told that with our Alzheimers residents they sometimes get up and truly just roam around. They seem aimless, going places they shouldn't because they imagine the location they envision is something from decades ago."

"Okay, I get that."

"But Mr. MacGregor…Sue, says he just comes out with that cane of his, thumping along. May walk to the coffee pot or the water fountain. Actually makes himself a cup of coffee. Heck, once he helped himself to some of our snacks in the mini-fridge. He even threw out the wrappers."

"Sounds more like he's awake and coherent."

"Exactly! According to her stories, he answers questions like he's awake, takes directions like he's awake, even apologized for raiding our fridge on a couple of occasions, then we tell him to go back to bed, and he does. No fuss. He looks awake, not out of it like the confused senile patients often do when they roam."

"So let me say the obvious. He is awake."

"Nope, doesn't remember a thing about it. Now I know you're gonna say it's cuz of the Alzheimers but it's not. She tried rousing him a few minutes after he returned to sleep and he doesn't remember. Is coherent enough to tell us he doesn't remember except that he was just having a sort of weird dream about being hungry or thirsty or whatever. I'd classify that as sleepwalking, not the delusions of a deteriorated mental state, wouldn't you?"

Hands crossed in front of his chest, Artie rocked back and forth slightly on his heels, clearly processing the information. He gave a quick tilt of his head as if nodding but not quite. "I'll give you that," he agreed amiably, clearly still ruminating on the information. "Yeah-yeah, you may be right. Lemme get this straight. He gets better or worse depending on his day, and the same applies day by day, some better than others."

"Yup," she acknowledged succinctly, then smiled. "And no matter what, raiding the fridge doesn't qualify him as a murderer, no matter how wide you want to interpret the law."

Bestowing a pointed glance at his two compatriots, Artie said directly, "Agent Bering, Agent Lattimer, I'm guessing we need to rethink our approach. Thanks again, Nancy. I appreciated your help." And with that he took off. His typical amble had evolved into a brisk walk.

"Hey, man, wait up," Pete called, practically jogging to keep up. Myka was close on his heels.

"It's him," Artie stated without preamble.

"Him, who? You mean the old man?" Not waiting for a reply, he continued, "What makes you think so. So he sleepwalks, so what? Not only that, I didn't get any vibes when I went in there."

Nodding, Myka added, "Yeah, Artie, I think we should start back at square one."

The older man whirled nimbly, surprising them both. "You may not have had any vibes but I did. Not like you," he cocked a thumb at Lattimer. "But think about it, the guy is acting in ways not consistent with his illness." He began to tick off comments on his fingers. "Second, fate or whatever you care to call it, keeps directing us toward him. Every time we turned around, we were nudged toward noticing him. For someone in our line of work, you should know by now that stuff like this doesn't happen without a reason. It's no coincidence."

Abruptly, he wheeled around, and started back toward the direction they came.

Hurrying to catch up, Myka fell into step, her long legs eating up the space twice as fast as Artie's shorter quicker steps. Pete joined them, mindful of providing a barrier between male and female pheromones hoping to collide in more ways than over distance.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

Chapter 6

In no time at all, they were back before the MacGregor doorway. All business at this point, and seemingly in a hurry, Artie immediately launched into his question. "I know this will sound strange to you but I was wondering about the history of your house."

Eyebrows furrowed on both family members. They seemed confused at this but were too stunned to sidestep it. The man spoke first. "I don't know much about it. We got it at a great buy, like dirt cheap."

His wife nodded, "Yes, tens of thousands less than for that area. But we fell in love with it in any case so we were so happy to get it for a steal. And it sure needed a lot of TLC so we figured that was reflected in the pricing."

"Why?" her husband asked, suddenly suspicious. "Do you think there was a problem, like mold or something in there, which made Granddad worse? Do we have anything to worry about? And even if we did need to worry, why would a moldy old house attract the attention of your people?"

"Why indeed," Artie muttered ruefully under his breath so only Myka and Pete could hear it clearly. He brought up placating hands. "No, no, no, not worrying about mold. I noted this area had a lot of Victorians, and I noticed they were quite expensive as you pointed out. You'd said before that you got it for a bargain and I was just wondering if there was some history to the house."

"History?"

At this Artie hesitated and put on a sheepish expression. "Okay, I'll admit it. I'm fascinated by the kind of histories that older houses have. You know… the family stories, the trials and tribulation, even the occasional tragedies. It dawned on me that maybe your home didn't go up on the market so inexpensively because it needed extensive repairs. Maybe it went up because of a tragedy and apparently no one told you."

The husband frowned mightily after a few seconds. "Please don't tell me you're into the paranormal garbage? Hauntings and all that."

Hesitating for effect, Artie finally said softly, "Hobby of mine. Cause and effect, yin and yang, that sort of thing."

Myka's studied the couple's reactions closely. It was clear they weren't exactly buying what he was saying but were too bemused by it all to get offended by a different and more personal line of questioning. The wife shrugged. The husband simply shook his head.

Another dervish whirl and Artie breezed out the door, sparing only the briefest of amorous glances at Myka before he was streaking down the hall.

"Where are we going," Myka asked, still too befuddled to follow this. It was how Nielsen's mind worked sometimes and she was getting used to just going with the flow.

"To get my laptop," Artie explained somewhat breathlessly.

Once back at the SUV, Artie pulled a laptop case from under the driver's seat and unzipped it. Pete craned his neck to get a look at it. With all the amazing gadgets at Artie's disposal and with the antiquated design of his futuristic computer in the Warehouse as well as the 'portable' computer he used at Leena's, Pete was expecting something very 'cool'. He was disappointed. The laptop was so mundane. No bells or whistles, no keys from 1920's typewriters, not even Vista which Artie swore he loathed with a passion anyway.

It did, however, have Wi-Fi. A glance at the paper files yielded up the information he desired, and in short order he was pulling up MacGregor's old home address via search engine.

"Here we go," murmured Artie as he did a quick scan of the first newspaper article. "Seems a murder most foul occurred at this location in…let's see, Loudon County, about six years ago. The husband found his wife cheating on him and when he caught them in bed together he went totally berserk. Just as the lover decided to go airborne out a window, he was caught by the husband who nailed him with an object of some kind, didn't say what, and then proceeded to beat him with it."

Pausing for a second, he leaned in closer to the screen before adding, "He then pummeled the wife almost to the point of giving up the ghost…huh… I'd call that a murderous rage…but she survived. The guy didn't. It also says they weren't sure what the weapon was."

He backed out of the story, scrolled down through a few more articles and found something a bit more recent. "The stigma of the assault and murder was enough to keep any serious buyers away, so it sat in ongoing disrepair for…" he leaned closer to read the tiny print better, "five years. Then it was purchased…probably by the MacGregor relatives back there."

He took a deep breath and blew it through pursed lips. With a wild gleam in his eyes, Artie finished. "I'm guessing that the murder weapon never did get recovered. In fact, I'll bet it was in the house, cleaned up and hidden away in the attic." He paused for effect, allowing his voice to dip deeper as he said the last word.

Pete and Myka instantly turned to each other. "The cane? You think the cane was the weapon?"

Their boss said nothing, only waited on them to process it on their own.

"So it's simple, the cane was the object to beat the woman, kill off the guy, but why rate it as an artifact. It looked ordinary enough to me." Then he stopped short. Many of the warehouse artifacts looked ordinary, he reminded himself.

Artie still said nothing, though small lines were deepening in the corners of his eyes.

Pete corrected himself, "No, it wasn't ordinary at all was it? It was very different. Ornate. Old looking. Made of…"

At the same moment, Myka and Pete bestowed queasy looks on each other. "Metal," they both said.

"Not another metal mind-controlling monstrosity," Pete moaned.

Myka laughed despite herself. "Very good, Pete. You really got a handle on that string of alliteratives."

"Thanks," he answered, sounding weary. "It's too big for the neutralizing container, Artie. So we snatch it and douse it somewhere safe?"

"Sounds like a plan," the man said in response. "Minus all the details of course."

The laptop was returned to the vehicle.

"So what makes you so positive it's the cane? Yeah, I get it, bizarre, funny looking object and all that. But what makes you so sure? I still got no vibes."

"Because it may only activate when the user is more helpless, say in a somnolent state. He gets up to sleepwalk, grabs the cane out of habit and then is influenced by it."

"And you believe it because fate just keeps putting this guy and his walking stick in our path?"

"More or less," Artie agreed in a sing-song voice. Then he grew serious. "Look guys, cold hard facts helped us figure out why I can't keep my hands to myself today. But sometimes you just have to rely on instincts and mine are screaming we're on the right track here. Too many pieces falling together."

"I trust you. We'll retrieve it tonight. Right, Pete?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Tonight. Shouldn't be hard."

The three agents spent the remainder of the evening in Pete's motel room aside from a brief venture outside when stomach's started to grumble. A late meal was Denny's style because that particular establishment was within easy walking distance of their rooms.

Once finished, they reviewed their knowledge of the building layout, the security systems Myka had observed, and several alternative escape plans if anything went wrong. Security was bound to be beefed up, police might even be staking it out at night, and everyone would be on edge. And if they got caught, it was conceivable they'd be blamed for the murders until further investigation of their prior whereabouts cleared them.

As they planned, Artie sat on the far side of the room, taking it all in. He looked vaguely sad, like a kid who was missing out on some school trip because he was too ill to go along that day.

Looking at Artie, Pete asked, with a wide grin, "How are your lock picking skills?"

"Good enough," Nielsen growled in mock irritation, "but you don't need me for that. You know your stuff. You don't need me along. Anyway, same warnings apply. Don't take anything for granted. Don't get hurt."

Dressed all in black, Pete and Myka climbed into the SUV and took off. Artie promised to wait on their call and wished them luck.

Gaining access to the building just before midnight wasn't much of a chore. They were already used to such adventures from the assignments previously handed out by Artie.

Pete had once mused to Myka that he was turning into a cat-burglar instead of retaining his image as an agent of the government. This was more cloak and dagger stuff, Mission Impossible with an aspect of reality to it. He'd told her once that it was small wonder no one knew about their new jobs aside from the fact that they'd been reassigned. Warehouse 13 existed so deep underground and under the radar that no one would believe it existed. Their job description had radically altered the day they'd agreed to take on the assignment permanently. And now they were at it again, going in to steal an item that no one in their right mind would see as valuable or as a threat, breaking the law and facing consequences if they got caught at it.

Because they couldn't be sure of which room they needed by viewing the outside of the building, they had no option but to go inside first.

Cutting through the glass on a dark, head high, back window, was easy, and the window swung out smoothly once unlatched. They effortlessly got in and dropped silently to the floor. Myka followed Pete in and out of alcoves as they progressed toward MacGregor's room. Pairs of night nurse or attendants padded by on soft-soled shoes but otherwise all was quiet.

The night unit coordinator was at her station but oblivious to them as they crawled below the level of her vision.

They found the room right away, and slipped inside. No MacGregor. The bed had been vacated. Mussed but empty. Figures, Pete's eyes told Myka silently. She wryly twisted the right corner of her mouth in agreement and gestured that they needed to go out again and find him.

That act took a while given the need to maintain stealth. An open door in a line of closed ones was the only clue that something was out of place. Myka pointed and Pete signaled he would take point. They slipped in through the door and found Mr. MacGregor, cane pointing to the ceiling, about to pummel a deeply sleeping, frail looking woman.

"You should have died," the man was moaning softly. In the dim light from the hall, Myka could see glistening spots on his cheek. 'Tears?' She wondered.

"How could you do this to me?" he asked pitifully. "I loved you. Loved only you. And now see what you've done. You don't deserve everything I've done for you."

At the last of his nearly sobbing words, the woman came awake and prepared to scream.

One thing that made the Bering/Lattimer team so successful was its ability to improvise and still stay on the same page. Pete ran for the guy with the cane. Myka ran forward and planted her hand over the woman's mouth and whispered tensely in her ear to stay calm. The resident followed the order only because she could see Pete wrestling with the cane wielding man. There was the sound of rubber ripping as part of the dragon tore open Pete's glove. He growled at the pain as it sliced into his palm. But he didn't let go.

Still sobbing, MacGregor fought back. Pete grunted with the strain. Damn, the guy was strong. Of course he was. Obviously the guy was getting strength from outside sources, namely the object he had in his hand.

This presented a dilemma. Pete didn't want to punch the guy. He was too old and weak for it. Even if his brain was controlled, his body was still frail enough to be seriously injured. Exercising control and using his great height, Pete grabbed the cane's wood staff. The vibes he got off of it nearly slammed him to the ground. This thing wasn't vile but it was hurting so badly that pain had turned to rage and rage was geysering out of it like steaming water from Old Faithful.

Instinct told him to release the object but he refused. Instead he chose to suffer. He wrapped his hands around MacGregor's and was bombarded by visions, hazy yet overpowering. He saw a couple in bed, moaning and writhing in ecstasy, their faces shocked as they looked at him or rather looked at the man who had discovered them. He saw the naked guy bolt for the window just as Artie had said. The cane came down on his head, splitting his skull with one blow. And he noted the woman cowering and screaming as the end of the cane bore down on her repeatedly until she lay in a quivering mass of broken bones and bloody lacerations.

The wave of overwhelming anger was beating him down as well. He wanted to shriek at the world. Rage at the woman in the bed before him, who'd perpetrated such an injustice on him. He felt himself starting to surrender to the emotions, knowing with complete certainty that killing her would make his pain go away.

"Pete!!" Myka cried as loudly as she dared. "Stop!" Hastily she double checked the purple surgical gloves Artie always supplied. Desperately lunging for him, she used a few quick martial arts techniques to wrestle the object away from them.

MacGregor, freed from the influence of it, collapsed onto the floor still moaning from emotional anguish. Beside him, Pete stood doubled over at the waist, struggling for control.

"Thanks," he said simply. "Unbelievable. It had me."

"I saw that." She stated dryly. She took a peek out the door and gave a relieved sigh. No one about. "Leave him. She'll call for help. We need to go now!"

Exiting the facility was far simpler. They didn't need to worry about location. They just popped open the intended victim's window, scanned for police and vanished into the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: Love Potion #13

**Author:** LadyNRA

**Rating**: PG

**Spoilers**: None that fans wouldn't know already

**Characters**: Artie, Pete and Myka

**Genre**: Drama (more or less)

**Disclaimer**: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.

**Summary**: Pete and Myka are getting used to be Warehouse Agents but Artie thinks they need a little more coaching. Unfortunately, things don't go as planned.

Chapter 7

"That was fast," commented Artie when they flew through the door and shut it hurriedly behind them. They hadn't contacted him via Farnsworth but he decided not to chastise them for it.

Holding up the cane in a gloved hand, Myka said, "It all came together easier than expected. We actually caught this in the act of controlling MacGregor."

"Really?" Artie said with a pleased smile. Then it gradually faded. "Uh, I mean, no one was hurt right?"

"Yup. All fine. One lady got the shock of her life, and MacGregor will be sore tomorrow. But we arrived, like the cliché'd cavalry, just in the nick of time."

"Yeah, no harm no foul, and we got what we came for." He held up the newly acquired object. "The police won't have much to go on. Tonight's victim will swear two people dressed in black helped save her from MacGregor. No one will believe MacGregor had it in him though they'll probably keep him under observation for a good long while. But I'm confident they'll wrap this one up quickly even if they don't understand what went down."

"That's the best news I've had today!" said Artie, donning purple surgical gloves. He emphatically cupped his fingers and gestured like Neo in the Matrix. "Let's have it." Placing it on a tarp already set out on the floor, he dug his gloved hands into neutralizer and quickly smeared it over the object. An intense expression settled on his features but it winked out in a blaze of white phosphorescence. There was a tremendous discharge of energy. Sparks flew everywhere. A kaleidoscope of color bathed the room in prismatic disco lighting. Everyone turned away to protect their eyes.

When the last sparking had ceased, Artie picked it up. His expression clearly said he was relieved.

The neutralizer fireworks had spectacularly confirmed his suspicions. It had definitely been an artifact.

"One down, one to go," Nielsen murmured, reaching out to gingerly retrieve the goo-dripping cane. Upon closer examination he hefted it and lightly fingered the metalwork on the handle.

"Interesting," he added, head cocked slightly to the side, deep in thought.

Pulling in closer, Pete observed the object more thoroughly, his dark eyes squinting slightly in concentration.

"Something about the metal was the culprit, right?" Myka surmised aloud from several feet away, clearly still mindful of Artie's difficulties with his own close encounter of the artifact kind.

If Nielsen noted this, he didn't let on. "Not sure, but I'm guessing you're right. See how these bands of metal were hammered almost wafer-thin and layered over the grip, then indented with some tool to make them look like scales.

Nodding, Pete stated, "Sure, I see that. Interesting craftsmanship. The dragon is very lifelike."

"True, true. But it's not the whole handle that's been influencing the people. I believe, though I could be wrong, that it is the part where the palm rests." He lightly spun it over to see one contiguous wrapping of the metal. "Call me crazy, but I think that when the enraged original owner whacked those people, something happened to store that memory on this band. Given the right conditions, it was relaying those memories and perhaps emotions to the current user."

"You mean, like a videotape recording visual and auditory images."

"Um, yeah, sounds about right."

"And this affected the old man how?" Pete interjected. "It's not that I can't see how this works. All this stuff is from the Bizarro Universe anyway and I'm getting where I can accept just about anything, but early on he was living at home and using the artifact. Later he was at the nursing home and using the artifact. No attacks. Nothing seems different."

"Well, that's not exactly true," Artie maneuvered the cane upright. "You heard the staff. Mr. MacGregor had started sleepwalking recently. Who knows, maybe from a change in meds, maybe just alterations in circadian rhythms." He waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, this state of mind, somewhere between waking and deep sleep was making him more susceptible. He'd start his night journeys, reach for the cane out of habit, and that was the moment when he was most open to the memories or images or whatever this thing was transmitting. He probably thought he was having nightmares, never suspecting that he was the one trying to complete an act of revenge."

"In what way?" Pete asked.

"The cheating wife survived, remember? Lots of pent up hostility over that, I'll bet."

"Wonder what happened to him," Pete pondered aloud.

The answer was quick in coming. "Hubby was probably thrown into the slammer for the rest of his natural life. Most likely still there…unless the State saw fit to put him out of his misery for the murder of the other guy."

"No capital punishment in this state," she reminded him, just a touch smug at having caught him forgetting such a basic fact.

"The crime occurred in Loudon County, remember? Across the state border. Different state, different laws," Artie responded with an equally smug half-smile.

Raising hands in surrender, Myka said, "So the final act of retribution against the wife never took place and whoever used this cane, given the right conditions, was going to end up destined to repeating the crime."

"Yeah, only this time innocent women were dying." Pete added sounding subdued.

"Not any more," Artie responded, laying the object down like it still had the potential to bite him if he wasn't careful.

Cautiously, he placed the wrapped cane onto the top of the motel's built-in dresser. "Only one thing left to wrap up," he murmured tiredly. "Unfortunately it's gonna have to wait 'til morning."

Since sleeping in late was an option, all three agents decided to take their time getting ready. The museum wasn't opening until nine o'clock. Myka and Pete had showered and dressed then waited on Artie who needed a bit of prodding before he stirred. He ambled off in the direction of the bathroom as they took a walk to pick up breakfast. Said breakfast was the usual fare, a heart- attack-inducing meal that Pete had wolfed down even before Artie, curly hair dripping, had exited the steaming room. He was dressed in his usual dark tee shirt, button-down shirt and casual slacks.

Giving Myka a wide berth while stowing away a basic travel kit in his duffel, he inched closer to view the sandwiches, wrinkled his nose slightly at the congealing grease, and surrendered to the temptation to give up on his eat-more-sensible diet. He scooped up a ham, egg and cheese biscuit, along with coffee, creamer and several sugars, and parked himself on the bed with a contented sigh.

"Want us to come into the museum with you?" queried Myka after a few moments.

Swallowing audibly, Artie responded, "Only if you continue to keep your distance." His stare spoke volumes.

Bering sat in the chair, elbows propped on the armrest, fingers steepled before her mouth, carefully hiding a smile. "But making you sweat is so much fun, Artie! You should have seen the look on your face yesterday." She allowed a laugh to escape, revealing her beautiful smile.

"Agent Bering, do I need to remind you that we face several hours in the car…in close proximity…before this … Anything, anything can happen in that time." Then he smiled dreamily as if a wonderful thought had just occurred to him. "Best of all, I can't be held responsible. I'm UIA."

"UIA?" She asked, perplexed. This was a new one on her.

"Under the Influence of an Artifact!" With that said, he blew her a brief kiss. That act was enough to induce a flashback of the previous day's incident and she subconsciously leaned farther back in her chair.

Their first stop after checking out didn't turn out to be the museum as Myka and Pete expected. Artie made a quick detour across the street and entered the same antique shop he'd visited the previous day.

"Why here?" she asked as she saw him pick up a crystal perfume bottle and eye it suspiciously for a moment.

Without motion or comment, he held the bottle in his cupped palm for several seconds. Intuition, fine-tuned by decades of field experience, hadn't hollered at him the first time he had picked it up. It wasn't screaming any louder this time around.

Myka saw his features relax. "Worried about the bottle?"

"I thought this might be the troublemaker. I'd examined it yesterday and…well…figured there might be a link between my enhanced sense of smell and this. But my gut is telling me it's not…" He stopped short, exhaled quickly, and walked the item over to the register. He paid the relatively exorbitant price without criticism and turned to leave. "Let's neutralize it anyway."

Once back at the vehicle, which was parked only a half block from the museum entrance, he dropped the bottle into the purple goo container and watched it start to sink. He never even flinched in anticipation of the usual sparking. He knew what would happen. Nothing did. "Ordinary bottle, like I thought. Had to try. Just in case."

Myka slipped on a surgical glove and fished it back out. "Pretty," she observed, marveling at the delicate and beautiful design still visible through the dripping purple slime.

"For you," Artie stated as if that had been his intention all along. "Enjoy!" And he back-pedaled a few steps as she forgot herself and walked too close. "Enough of this, let's go after the real culprit." And he marched back across the street.

The curator at the museum, Mr. Latham, took his sweet time meeting them, and frowned mightily when he recognized Artie. The three agents all held up their badges and the wrinkles in the man's brow evened out.

"What's this about?" he asked, sounding confused.

"This is about that accident I had yesterday with your display case," Artie began explaining. "Sorry about that by the way. You know how it is, kids getting rowdy. I wasn't exactly fast enough to get out of the way." He looked around at the display of Native American musical instruments off to his right before continuing. "Nothing got touched by me except for a small doll-like figure. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Latham looked at Nielsen out of the corner of his eye as he tried to recall the history of the object. "I believe I know the one you are thinking of. Chippewah, correct?

"Yeah, exactly. At least that's what the placard said. What it didn't say was why it was created."

"Sure it did. The whole display was dedicated to dolls. "

Artie blew a soft breath through his lips. "Could it have been misplaced, perhaps?"

Again that quizzical look, "'Misplaced'? In what way?"

"As in it not being a children's toy?" explained Nielsen, sounding just a touch irritated.

"It's possible, I guess. Anything's possible. Sometimes we acquire these things from private collectors who weren't really sure where they came from or what their function was. The private donor had simply told us that it was a plain straw doll and so we placed it with the others. Why? Do you think otherwise?"

"Yes. I do. When it fell, I managed to catch it, and after putting it back, I discovered there was a slight whitish glittering residue on my hand. Now, that seemed odd to me. I'm just here out of curiosity rather than in an official capacity, to find out what substance coated the doll."

Shrugging with his hands palms up, Latham stated, "I never really noticed. I didn't handle the piece, not even after your accident yesterday."

"Any chance you can look into it for me?"

The man turned to face the direction of the display case in question, covered tightly with plastic and awaiting repair. "I suppose that'd be alright. I see no reason why not. Follow me."

The basement level of the building, comprised of typical cinderblock painted a shade of beige, greeted them as the elevator doors opened. It was bisected by a narrow hallway and other intersections could be seen farther along. Some rooms were nearly empty, others were filled with historical treasures, priceless in some cases, irreplaceable in most. It smelled, not moldy exactly, but 'old'.

Eventually they came to a room where a woman was carefully cleaning a ceremonial bone breastplate. She wore cotton gloves.

"Claire, these are Agents Nielsen, Lattimer, and Bering." He sounded officious but Myka had to give him points for remembering their names without prompting.

"Gentlemen," the woman smiled at them, "and Ms. Bering. What can I do to help our fine government today?"

At first Pete wanted to snap off a quick comeback but a quick study of her tone and body language clearly indicated she wasn't attempting to be sarcastic.

"We just wanted to ask you about one of the items in this museum," Artie said, seeing the heated gleam in Lattimer's eyes. His team had their own buttons they didn't like having pushed. Myka wasn't fond of sexist remarks. Pete wasn't happy when his job was denigrated.

He took charge quickly. "Can you tell me about an effigy in the doll display? Small, straw, no discernible features, tied with cording. Kids today like to make 'em out of yarn."

"Oh right, right. I know exactly the ones you mean. We have several of them in that case."

"This one is the most simple. And it…uh…catches the light…um, it glitters. Chippewah."

"Right, right," the woman said again. But she didn't add any further comment.

Pacing too close to Myka, Nielsen immediately stepped back and covered the move by turning his attention to a feathered shepherd's style staff.

"Medicine bow," Claire supplied. "They'd—"

"--wear sashes into battle, stick the medicine bow through the sash, and stay planted in that spot until the battle was either won or they died."

Clearly, Claire was impressed. "This will be our first one on display. We were excited to acquire it."

Standing at that distance, Artie asked THE big question. "Is it possible that the doll isn't really a plaything, but an effigy of some sort?"

"You mean, like it has another purpose?"

"Exactly." Artie nodded emphatically.

She pulled at her lower lip, a very attractive and kissable lip at that Artie was thinking as he inhaled her perfume. Unaware of his thoughts, Claire drew a laptop toward her. She input data, speed read through several links and hiked up one eyebrow.

"Well, well, well," she said, drawing out the last word like it was a song. "This is interesting. According to this database, some of these effigies were used as love gifts."

All three agents shot knowing glances as each other.

"Go on," Myka encouraged, truly interested now.

Claire didn't disappoint. "It says here that some tribes used this sort of object as a love talisman. One source says here that the Chippewah—that's how it was labeled right?--would create a love potion and cover the talisman with it, then bestow it upon the object of their affection. Let's see…" She leaned in closer to the screen.

"It says that false gromwell, AKA Onosmodium Hispidissimum Mackenzie was used. The seeds were believed to have the power to induce feelings of love, so it was used as a love charm. It also says it was used alone "or in combination with other substances". And, get this, when mixed with other substances it was often used on figurines." She laughed, a light hearted pleasant sound that surprisingly echoed in the packed room.

"The next paragraph basically says that the seeds were very small and round and had a 'luster like pearls'."

Pete turned to look at Artie, who appeared to be practically twitching with his desire to look at the screen himself. "Go on," he prompted before Artie lost the battle and ultimately ended up in a very compromising situation with the lovely Claire.

"This site claims that this love potion was said to be 'magnetic' because it supposedly adhered to needles pushed through the mixture. Now that's really interesting. I wonder if it's true."

"You're better off not finding out!" stated Artie. He looked immeasurably relieved but also vaguely alarmed at the misty look in Claire's eyes. "I believe the effigy I accidentally touched is very much like that one." He pointed at the computer.

Laughing again, Claire gave him an appraising, almost seductive look, clearly a tease and not a serious one at that. "So tell me, did it work, as a love potion I mean?"

Artie subconsciously straightened to his full height of 5'7". "No! What it did was make me nauseated for the last twenty four hours."

"Liar, liar," Pete mouthed to Artie with a broad grin.

"Really? Sorry to hear that. It would have been quite a find if that was what the effigy truly did. Imagine it. A real working love potion. Then again, that item is quite old so any substances on it have probably altered with time."

"Let me give you a bit of advice." Artie replied sternly. "Unless you want to spend a day worshipping the porcelain god, just leave it well enough alone. And remember to wear your gloves if ya gotta touch it."

Claire stood as if realizing the conversation had reached an end. "I'll make sure a note is logged into the system. Wouldn't do for the staff to be ill."

Turning to leave, Artie said over his shoulder, "Thanks so much for the help in identifying the source of my…illness."

"My pleasure," she said with a grin, leaving both Pete and Myka wondering if she didn't believe the lie and was going to risk sickness in order to discover the truth for herself.

They hadn't been outside on the street more than a few seconds when Lattimer corralled Artie. "You just leaving it at that?"

"For now," was the succinct reply.

"No snag, bag, tag." Myka added rhetorically.

"Later," came the flat reply. "As long as no one fools with it, it'll be harmless enough. And it'll give me time to make a repica."

Bering raised one shapely eyebrow. "I'm thinking our museum assistant back there might like to do a little experimenting on her own."

"I'll keep this place under observation. If there's a repeat performance within the next couple of weeks, I'll just send you both in to get it. Happy?"

"Sure," both agents said in unison.

"As for the other problem, I just gotta hole up in the warehouse and wait on this to wear off."

Pete snickered. "And stay as far away from Mrs. Frederic or Leena in the process."

Growling in exasperation, Artie told them, "Under no circumstances are you to put my problem in your report, you hear me?"

Pete looked affronted, "What? Us, lie?" Then the huge grin was back. "Are you kidding? Of course we'll write this up. That way she can give you evil glances for a change."

Myka's palms-up shrug had nothing to do with "I don't know how to handle it". Instead it screamed, "Hell, I'm with Pete on this. You're outta luck."

Giving them a truly pained look, Artie strode purposefully toward the SUV. Pete got into the passenger side and Myka prepared to drive. It took a minute for them to realize that Artie should have gotten in behind Pete but was notably absent. There was the sound of something thumping the side of the SUV, rocking it slightly.

Glancing over his shoulder, Pete caught sight of something that made him snort with laughter. Plastered hard against the vehicle was Nielsen. And pressing him tightly there was the same fifty-something woman he'd grabbed earlier the prior morning, red beret and all. She'd wrestled him into an embrace that would have choked an elephant, and he was squirming in her grasp. However, the grip of the love potion was obviously still strong, causing enough hesitation to make escape nearly impossible. And the woman, looking thoroughly pleased with herself; well, she was taking full advantage of his momentary indecision.

"Hey look at this," Pete laughed again, pointing over his shoulder. "Damn! Where's a camcorder when you need one!" He had already calculated how many months of blackmail he could have gotten if only…

Myka twisted and began to chuckle though she could barely see what was going on from her side of the vehicle. She struggled to get up higher for a better look.

"Think we should rescue him?" Bering asked once she'd caught her breath.

"In a minute, Myka," he replied, easing back into his seat for a better view out the side mirror. "In a very, very, long minute.


End file.
